Rita Louise Watson

Three Months Later - Early July

The TV was playing some show they’d said they were finally going to catch up on. But the remote had long since hit the floor. Pillows were barely on the couch. A blanket bunched under Michael’s thigh. The room was a mess of heat, sweat, and motion.

Wunmi was facing away from him, spine arched, hands braced on his knees. Her hips working in a rhythm that was anything but sweet. Michael was leaned back on the arm of the couch, broad chest heaving, eyes fixed entirely on her.

His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging in just to ground himself. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that.”

There was nothing slow or soft about this it had just happened. One kiss during a commercial break turned into her straddling him, turned into heat, friction, and both of them chasing something they hadn’t been able to make time for.

“Damn,” Michael groaned, his head tilting back for a second, one hand sliding up her spine and then back down. “You know what that does to me.”

Wunmi didn’t answer, just moved faster.

They’d been like this for months, fitting moments like this in whenever they could. Early mornings, late nights, fifteen-minute breaks between her meetings or his rehearsals. Baby-making mode had taken over, but it never felt like a chore to them. 

Michael was in the middle of a demanding shoot schedule, juggling long days, strict training, and early call times. But no matter how wiped out he was or how early he had to be up the next day, if she wanted him, he was there.

More than that he always wanted her.

And right now, he was completely gone for her.

“Look at you,” he growled, watching her move. “Swear, you were made for me.”

Wunmi pressed harder into her rhythm, gasping when his grip tightened.

His voice dropped lower. “You want it that bad, huh? Want me to put a baby in you right here on this damn couch?”

She gasped, not just from his words, but the way he pulled her down harder the next second.

He grinned, eyes dark, breath wrecked. “Thought so.”

Nothing else existed outside of this couch except this moment, this promise they kept chasing. Michael was talking low, pushing her, whispering things against her back that made her shiver.

The moment teetered on something primal, not just about sex, not even just about making a baby. It was about them. The pull they had toward each other. The way their bodies knew what their mouths didn’t always say.

Michael leaned forward just enough to press his chest to her back, his lips brushing her shoulder.

“I got you,” he murmured, “however you want it. However long it takes.”

And she believed him.

-

The bathroom light hummed softly above her as Wunmi sat on the edge of the tub, two white plastic sticks laid out on the counter in front of her. She didn’t look at them right away. She’d already started to recognize the subtle weight in her chest when the second line didn’t show.

This wasn’t new. It was just another maybe that could turn into a no, again.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor instead.

Michael had gone out for a morning run. He didn’t know she was taking another test. She hadn’t told him about the last few times. Not because she was hiding anything, but because she hated the hope in his eyes. She hated the look that followed when she’d shake her head and say, “Not this time.”

The clock on her phone ticked past the three-minute mark.

Finally, she stood and leaned over the counter. Two tests, side by side. Both negative.

She didn’t cry like last time. Instead she just exhaled hard, her hand gripping the edge of the sink. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even heartbreak. It was an invisible ache that creeps in when something you want feels like it’s always just a little bit out of reach.

She heard the front door open and close a minute later. Michael was back from his run earlier than usual. She quickly swept the tests into the drawer, shut it, and reached for the hand towel to wipe her face.

“Wunmi?” His voice came through the hall.

“In the guest bathroom,” she called, trying to sound casual.

He stepped into the doorway, shirt off, headphones around his neck, breath a little heavy but eyes soft the moment he saw her.

“You okay?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

He came forward quietly, slid his arms around her from behind, and let his chin rest on her shoulder.

Wunmi closed her eyes, leaning back into his warmth.

“I think I’m done testing,” she said softly.

He nodded, not pushing.

“I’m gonna make an appointment with my doctor and get back on the pill. At least for now,” she continued.

Michael just held her tighter.

“You sure?” he asked, not because he doubted her, but because he needed her to know she had space to change her mind.

“Yeah,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just…I don’t know.”

He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing her cheek. “We’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

Wunmi nodded, resting her forehead against his chest. “I want a baby with you so bad.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Me too. Maybe we stop trying so hard. Just until after the wedding. We’ve both been stretched thin.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“It’s not that I don’t want it, Wunmi,” he added, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I want you to be okay, more than anything.”

Michael kissed her forehead, arms still wrapped around her like a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “We’ll get there. When it’s time.”

-

The kitchen set was prepped for them with everything set up. A few cameras were placed around.The crew was silently observing Michael and Wunmi. Both had their aprons tied ready to go. Everything was intimate by design.

Michael was at his cutting board, chopping green onions, completely focused, but not too focused to talk.

“Remember that time we were supposed to be preparing for a scene, but we ended up talking for three hours instead? I was trying so hard not to ask to ask you out.”

“I know,” she said, eyes twinkling.

He smiled. “I didn’t know if you’d say yes.”

“You didn’t know I’d been waiting for you to ask.”

There was a pause as they both kept working, hands moving with quiet rhythm. Garlic hit the pan. A splash of broth. 

“Wedding planning’s going okay for you?” he asked, returning to the rhythm.

Wunmi gave a dry laugh. “You mean the emails I send at 2 a.m. and the ten-minute phone calls between your training sessions?”

“I mean all the decisions I pretend to help with.”

“Exactly.”

He snuck a glance at her dish. “That smells insane, by the way.”

“Michael–”

“I didn’t touch it!”

“Yet.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, lifting a spoon like he might test his own broth but watching her instead, “this all feels kinda crazy.”

Wunmi looked up. “What does?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“This,” he said finally. “Standing here with you, cooking and talking about our future to the whole world.”

Her lips curled into a slow smile. “That’s because we do this all the time. This one just happens to be on camera.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“No,” she said. “Not with you.”

They were both in the zone now, flirting, talking, and teasing without even thinking about the cameras.

Michael reached toward the spice rack mid-sentence, grabbed a familiar little jar, and held it out toward Wunmi without missing a beat.

“Here–” he started, casually, offering it with the same ease you’d offer someone their favorite drink.

But Wunmi didn’t take it.

She looked at it for just a second longer than she should have, then shook her head almost imperceptibly and shifted her attention back to her pan. The motion was smooth and quick but Michael noticed.

Michael stirred his sauce, keeping his face neutral. Wunmi adjusted the heat on her burner, acting like nothing had happened. And from the outside, nothing really had. But something was there, just under the surface. Something only they noticed.

The moment passed, and the energy slipped right back into place.

They plated their dishes with flair just in time for the judge to step in. The tasting was short because everyone already knew what the outcome would be.

“Wunmi wins,” the judge said with a satisfied smile, setting down the fork.

Michael exhaled, threw his head back, and groaned. “I was robbed.”

Wunmi, glowing and grinning, bounced in place before stepping over to him.

“It’s okay, love,” she said sweetly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Michael tugged her closer, arm draped over her shoulder like it was second nature. “I want a rematch”

She laughed, turned his face toward hers with two fingers under his chin, and looked him in the eye.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” she murmured, then kissed him. 

And he kissed her back, without missing a beat.

-

The sun was bright overhead, casting long shadows across the set’s gravel lot. Michael sat on a folding chair just off-camera, a towel around his neck and a half-empty water bottle in one hand. His stunt coordinator was talking through a reset, but Michael had tuned out halfway through.

He glanced down at his phone, looking at the time being displayed on his screen. It was 1:42 pm. His thumb hovered for a second, then tapped Wunmi ❤️.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, baby,” her voice came out low, scratchy, and groggy in a way that immediately made him frown.

“Were you sleeping?”

There was a pause on the other end, like she wasn’t sure herself. “Yeah…I guess so. What time is it?”

Michael blinked. “It’s almost two.”

“Shit,” she murmured, her voice muffled like she was rolling over. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just lying down for a second.”

He smiled, but it was laced with quiet confusion. “Didn’t you say you were going out today? You had a brunch thing.”

“I know. I was supposed to. I don’t know. I just got back from the shower, sat on the bed and I must’ve knocked out.”

Michael shifted in the chair, squinting toward set, but his focus stayed on her voice. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” she said, not very convincingly. “Just tired, I guess.”

Michael’s brows pulled together. Wunmi wasn’t a midday napper. Not unless something was really draining her.

“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

“I mean,” she exhaled, slow. “Not a lot. Just today.”

Michael let the silence sit for a beat. He wasn’t pressing, but not dismissing either.

“I miss you,” he said finally, voice lower. “Breaks don’t hit the same without you talking my ear off.”

That made her chuckle, sleep still thick in her voice. “You’re rude.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I like hearing about your day. I don’t like having to call you.”

She yawned softly on the other end. “I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to wake up properly.”

“You want me to order something for you?”

“I’ll find something here,” she mumbled. “Don’t worry, baby.”

He didn’t like that answer. Not from her. Wunmi was usually on top of her meals, her errands, her day. She didn’t just forget to eat or sleep half the afternoon away.

Michael glanced toward the crew again, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw.

“Alright. Try not to pass out again before I’m off.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m checking in later,” he said, firm but sweet. “So be ready.”

“Okay.”

Michael hung up, eyes still on the screen for a few seconds after the call ended. His jaw flexed slightly, concern sitting just under the surface. Something was off. He could feel it. And he knew her well enough to trust that feeling.

-

The exam room was quiet, the overhead light too bright, and the AC vent too cold. Wunmi sat on the edge of the paper-covered table in a tank top and leggings, her hands folded loosely in her lap. She didn’t feel nervous, only tired. Still not fully rested from the strange nap that overtook her yesterday. Her body felt like it had been whispering things she couldn’t hear.

The doctor, a warm, straightforward woman Wunmi had been seeing for the last few years, sat on a stool with a tablet in hand.

“So,” she said gently, “you mentioned wanting to go back on birth control?”

Wunmi nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s time. We’d been trying for a while, but we decided to wait. At least until after the wedding. I want to get my body back to feeling normal again.”

The doctor gave her a kind smile. “Totally understandable. Any preference? Pill, patch, IUD?”

“I was on the pill before. I’d probably stick with that unless there’s something easier.”

“Okay,” the doctor nodded, tapping a few things on her screen. “We’ll talk through our options, but first I want to run a few basic panels. Just to check hormone levels and make sure everything’s functioning how it should. It’s always a good practice before restarting anything hormonal.”

Wunmi nodded again. “Sounds good.”

The blood draw had been quick. She had even texted Michael while waiting, letting him know she’d get food after and probably take it easy the rest of the day.

Now, back in the same room thirty minutes later, the doctor walked in with a different energy. Still calm, but something more focused. Her tablet was in hand, but she didn’t look at it right away.

“Wunmi,” she said, “we got your tests back, and I’m glad we ran them.”

Wunmi sat up straighter, brows knitting slightly.

“You’re not sick,” the doctor said quickly, reading the concern on her face. “But I won’t be able to prescribe you birth control today.”

“Why not?” Wunmi asked slowly.

The doctor turned the tablet toward her not that she needed to see numbers to understand what came next.

“Because you’re pregnant.”

Wunmi stared at her, silent for a full beat.

“I’m what?”

“Pregnant,” the doctor repeated gently. “It’s very early. But the hCG levels are clear.”

Wunmi blinked. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach. “I wasn’t even late yet.”

“Some people don’t notice right away. Especially if your cycles have been shifting. And based on the symptoms you mentioned, the fatigue, food aversions, the sleep changes, it tracks.”

She didn’t speak again. Her mind was already jumping to the missed signs, the tests she took just weeks ago, how she’d told Michael they were stepping back. How she’d started letting go of the hope that had been hurting her. And now, here it was.

“You okay?” the doctor asked softly.

Wunmi nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. At all.”

The doctor stood and placed the tablet aside. “We’ll schedule a follow-up for next week. But in the meantime give yourself time to sit with it. You’re fine.”

Wunmi exhaled, her hand still resting lightly against her belly.

And the first thing that filled her chest even through the shock was Michael.

-

The house was dim, lit mostly by the golden glow of one lamp in the living room. Wunmi had canceled her plans hours ago. Her dinner with friends and a quick fitting were all wiped off the calendar. She’d spent most of the day being still, drifting from room to room. She wasn’t panicked or overthinking. She was sitting with the shift inside her, as if her body already knew and was waiting for her mind to catch up.

When she heard the front door open, she didn’t move right away. She was folding a blanket in the bedroom, hands smoothing it out a little too precisely.

“Babe?” Michael’s voice called through the hallway, followed by the familiar thud of keys hitting the entryway bowl.

“In here,” she said.

He walked in a moment later, hoodie still on, tired from the day but lit up the second he saw her.

“Hey,” he smiled, stepping up to kiss her cheek. “How was your day?”

She kept folding. “It was fine. I didn’t do much.”

He paused long enough to catch that her tone didn’t quite match her words. “You stayed in all day?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I canceled everything so I could rest.”

Michael dropped onto the edge of the bed, tugging off his shoes. “That’s fair. You needed a quiet day.”

She gave him a soft smile, then turned to put the blanket on the chair, her back still to him.

“You had your appointment today, right?” he asked, tossing his hoodie aside.

Wunmi’s hands froze briefly on the blanket. She nodded, still facing away. “Yeah.”

Michael looked up at her. “How’d it go?”

She exhaled, then finally turned back to him. “You know, I went to talk about getting back on birth control, right?”

“Right,” he said, relaxing into the bed a little. “Which one did she end up putting you on?”

“She didn’t,” Wunmi said slowly, moving to sit beside him but not looking at him yet. “There were options, but she wanted to run a few hormone tests first just to be sure everything was where it should be before prescribing anything.”

Michael nodded. “That makes sense. It’s been a weird couple of months for both of us.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I thought too.”

He glanced at her, more focused now. “So? What happened?”

She paused.

“She couldn’t put me on anything.”

Michael’s whole posture shifted completely alert now. “Why?”

Wunmi looked at him with her eyes steady and voice even.

“Because you can’t be on birth control when you’re pregnant.”

The room went completely still. Michael blinked once.

“What?”

She nodded, lips pressed together.

“You’re–?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Michael stared at her for another second like the words were still sinking in, like his brain had heard them but his heart hadn’t caught up yet. And then it did.

His lips parted, eyes wide with something warmer. Something that cracked open and poured right through his chest.

“Wait…wait, for real?”

Wunmi nodded again, this time with the faintest shimmer in her eyes. “For real.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months. “Oh my God.”

He leaned forward, hands slipping onto her knees, forehead pressed briefly against hers. She laughed softly, and it cracked something in both of them. He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“You’re really having our baby?”

“I am.”

Michael’s smile was growing.

“You sure it’s real?” he asked, like he just needed to hear it again.

“I saw it on the test, Michael.”

He let out a quiet laugh, eyes glossy now too. “Damn. So that’s why you were napping in the middle of the day, forgetting lunch, turning your nose up at garlic–”

“I knew you noticed,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“I notice everything about you,” he said, voice thick.

-

Wunmi sat at the edge of the bed in one of Michael’s tees, her legs folded beneath her, fingers playing absently with the hem. Her mind was still racing not with fear, but with the weight of knowing. The sudden clarity that the dream they had been chasing for months was already growing inside her.

Michael stepped in from the bathroom, shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes found hers instantly.

She looked up at him, her lips parted like there was something else she still needed to say, even after all the words they’d shared earlier. But he didn’t ask.

He crossed to her and knelt in front of her instead, his hands finding her knees gently, thumbs brushing over them like he needed to be touching her to ground himself.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said softly, his voice laced with wonder.

Wunmi blinked down at him, her eyes warm and glassy. “Me neither.”

Michael leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her thigh then looked up at her again.

“You wanna lay down?”

She nodded, and he helped her ease back onto the bed, climbing in beside her. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t move with hunger or heat. He just touched her like she was new again. Like everything between them had shifted into something he wanted to memorize.

He kissed her neck first, then her shoulder, then down the inside of her arm, like he was tracing the line of where love lived in her body.

Wunmi’s breath caught as his hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt, slowly exploring the soft curve of her waist, then her stomach. He paused there, fingers spreading over her skin with a reverence she felt all the way through her bones.

“I don’t even have the words for what this feels like,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in.

He kissed her fully, deep and slow. A kiss that was more than just want. It was one of promise, gratitude, and worship.

When he moved over her, there was no hesitation. Just the smooth, steady rhythm of two people who had nothing left to prove only everything left to feel.

Michael’s hands were everywhere, stroking her thigh, brushing hair from her face, holding her hips as if to remind her that she was safe.

She gasped his name as he moved deeper, and he kissed her jaw, then her lips, murmuring quiet things against her mouth.

“I’ve never loved you more than I do right now.”

Wunmi closed her eyes, overwhelmed by how present he was. How connected they felt. Like their bodies were speaking what their mouths didn’t know how to hold yet.

They stayed close as he rocked into her with slow, deep intention. Like he was anchoring the news into her skin, her breath, her body.

When she came, it wasn’t loud. It was full, a trembling exhale, a tightening around him, and a whispered “Michael” said like prayer.

He came soon after, his body shaking against hers, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other still resting protectively on her stomach.

And when it was over, they didn’t separate. He stayed pressed to her, forehead to hers, their breaths syncing like they always did after.

“I love you,” he said, still inside her. “So much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, her palm resting on his chest. “More than I knew I could.”

They stayed like that long into the night, skin to skin, hearts steady. Not just lovers anymore. Not just partners. But something even deeper.

A Week Later

The morning sun spilled across the hardwood floors slipping through the curtains just enough to make the quiet house feel alive. The air carried the soft scent of eucalyptus from one of the candles Michael had lit before making breakfast, hoping the calm energy might stick.

Today was Wunmi’s first official prenatal appointment. And luckily, it had landed on Michael’s one day off that week. 

He was in the kitchen finishing up dishes when he heard the click of heels behind him. He turned around, dish towel in hand, and just stopped.

Wunmi stepped into the light wearing the deep yellow backless sundress he’d bought her a while ago. The kind of dress he’d imagined on her when he first saw it hanging in the store, but until now, she’d never worn it. She’d always said she was saving it for something special. Apparently, today counted.

Michael’s lips parted slightly, the towel forgotten in his hand.

Wunmi noticed and arched a brow. “Too much?”

He shook his head slowly, walking toward her. “Not at all.”

She glanced down, smoothing the fabric against her hips, a little self-conscious now. “It’s a little tight up top.”

Michael stepped in front of her, lifting a hand to brush her curls from her shoulder so he could see the delicate curve of her back. Then he rested a reassuring palm there.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full. “Like damn girl.”

She smiled softly, still not used to how he could say something so genuine it made her forget what she’d been feeling before.

He kissed her cheek, then down to her neck. “You ready for today?”

“I think so,” she said, exhaling. “I’m a little nervous.”

He nodded, threading their fingers together. “Me too. But we’re in this together.”

They headed out shortly after, Michael carrying her water bottle, snacks, and a mental checklist of things he wanted to ask the doctor on her behalf, even if she rolled her eyes every time he mentioned it.

Wunmi didn’t say it, but she noticed the effort. Especially lately, with the mood swings starting to creep in. One minute she was content, the next overwhelmed for no clear reason. But Michael never made her feel like she had to explain it. He just stayed close.

And today, he had the entire afternoon planned; brunch after the appointment and a walk down her favorite strip. Because more than anything, he wanted her to feel steady and secure.

-

The waiting room smelled faintly like hand sanitizer and lemon-scented air freshener. Wunmi sat quietly beside Michael, filling out a form on a clipboard while he scrolled through his phone, occasionally glancing over at her responses like he could double-check them with love alone.

“Date of last cycle?” he murmured, eyes squinting at her handwriting.

“Stop it,” she said softly, but her smile gave her away.

A nurse called her name a few minutes later, and they both stood. Michael tucking his phone into his back pocket, his hand naturally finding the small of her back as they followed the nurse down the hall.

Wunmi stepped on the scale. Michael pretended not to look, though he did, obviously not judging, just filing it away, like everything about her mattered. He did the same for her blood pressure and heart rate.

“All good,” the nurse smiled. “Go ahead and leave us a sample in the bathroom there. The doc’ll be with you soon.”

Wunmi gave Michael a half-amused look as she disappeared with the cup.

He sat on the little chair beside the exam table, flipping through a parenting pamphlet until she returned, tugging her sundress back into place.

Dr. Franklin entered with a warm smile and a tablet in hand. She greeted Wunmi with ease and offered Michael a knowing nod, as if she already understood the kind of partner he was from the way he stood when she entered.

“So,” the doctor began, reviewing the file, “looks like you’re somewhere around 7 to 8 weeks based on your hormone levels and the dates you provided. We’ll get more specific with the ultrasound today.”

Michael straightened in his seat. “So, not just a little pregnant.”

Wunmi gave him a look.

Dr. Franklin laughed. “No, not little at all. A heartbeat should be visible by now, and you’re right in the range where most early symptoms start to intensify. How have you been feeling?”

“Tired,” Wunmi admitted. “And my mood's been all over the place.”

“Well,” Dr. Franklin smiled, “let’s take a look and get you both a visual.”

The lights dimmed slightly as the technician prepped the gel. Wunmi lay back on the table, nerves flickering through her body. Michael moved closer, standing beside her, holding her hand.

“There it is,” the tech said quietly. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

Wunmi’s breath caught. Michael stared at the screen like it was something sacred.

He leaned in close, whispering, “That’s our baby?”

“That’s your baby,” the doctor echoed with a kind smile. “Measuring just shy of eight weeks. Which puts your due date somewhere mid-to-late January.”

Michael was still holding Wunmi’s hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles, eyes never leaving the screen.

“The heartbeat seems strong. We’ll get a printed image for you two to take home.”

The lights came back on, and while Wunmi cleaned up, Michael sat back down, clearly trying not to hover too much.

Dr. Franklin walked them through early dietary guidelines; no sushi, no soft cheeses, caution with caffeine and deli meats.

Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, so what about ginger? She’s been living off ginger everything.”

“Ginger’s great in moderation,” the doctor said. “If it helps the nausea, let her have it.”

“What about her sleep? She’s been waking up at weird hours.”

“Totally normal. Hormones can disrupt sleep, digestion, even body temperature.”

Wunmi returned to her seat with a small sigh, grateful and overwhelmed in equal parts.

“We’ll schedule your next appointment in four weeks,” the doctor said, standing. “We’ll do another check-in, and talk more about genetic screening, if that’s something you’re open to.”

They doctor left, leaving the two of them to process what happened

-

The sun hit just right as they walked down the street, the kind of summer heat that pressed against skin and made every step feel like a little effort. Wunmi walked a few paces ahead of Michael, sunglasses shielding her eyes, the hem of her yellow dress swaying gently with each step.

Michael watched her like she was the only person on the block.

The sundress hugged her like it’d been waiting for this exact day. And she wore it like she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

He slowed for a second, pulled out his phone, and hit record.

Wunmi kept walking ahead, unaware, the sun catching the golden glow of her skin, her curls bouncing softly with her stride. She looked peaceful, or at least focused. Sunglasses on, lips set, not in the mood for small talk.

Michael’s camera flipped back around to his face. He mouthed the word “Damn”. He posted the video to his Instagram story with the words: “Buy her that dress she want.”

By the time they got to the restaurant Wunmi’s patience had started to fray. And the heat wasn’t helping.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder, looking around with narrowed eyes. “It’s too damn hot to be standing,” she muttered under her breath.

Michael kept his mouth closed, but the corner of his lips twitched. He reached for her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Almost inside.”

Wunmi exhaled through her nose. “I’m starving.”

The hostess looked up, and immediately did a double take. Then a triple take. One of those soft gasps followed by the “oh my God” flicker she couldn’t quite hide.

“Hi– uh, welcome,” she said, blinking fast. “Do you– do you have a reservation?”

Michael shook his head. “Nah. Do you have room for two?”

The hostess nodded so fast it looked like her head might fall off. “Of course. We, uh… we’re on a brief wait. But–” She glanced behind her. “Let me check something real quick.”

She scurried off toward the back, likely whispering something to whoever was in charge.

Wunmi sighed, leaning into Michael’s side. “It’s too hot to wait.”

Michael kissed the top of her head. “I know. Let’s just see what she says if we have to wait too long, we’ll go further down.”

Her face softened, but only slightly. “I’m sorry. I just get mad and then I’m hot and then I’m hungry and now I’m mad again.”

Michael chuckled, pulling her closer. “Baby, you’re literally growing a human. You can be mad as much as you want.”

Just then, another person, possibly the manager, came hurrying up, smiling too wide. “Mr. Jordan, Ms. Mosaku, we’re getting a table ready for you now. It won’t be too long.”

Michael nodded politely. “Appreciate you.”

Wunmi gave a polite smile, but Michael could feel the barely restrained sigh under it.

The hostess continued, “Would you like to wait in the lounge inside? It’s cooler.”

“Yes,” Wunmi said immediately, before Michael could speak.

He laughed softly. “Lead the way.”

As they followed the hostess inside, Michael leaned over and whispered, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“Don’t get slapped,” Wunmi muttered, but her fingers tightened affectionately around his hand.

The restaurant’s patio was shaded, fans overhead pushing just enough air to keep it tolerable. Wunmi sat across from Michael, sunglasses on, one hand propped under her chin as she sipped lemonade. The tension in her body had eased slightly now that she had water, shade, and a menu in front of her.

Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t stop watching her. He was done for. His hand rested on her thigh under the table, his thumb rubbing slow, absent-minded circles against her skin.

“You staring again?” she asked without looking up from the menu.

Michael grinned. “Not at all.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am,” he said easily, eyes still on her. “But you look good in that dress.”

She shook her head at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched. He knew she was still riding the edges Michael leaned forward again, sliding his hand into hers. “You feel okay now?”

“Better,” she said. 

He kissed the back of her hand gently. “Tell me about the show.”

Wunmi sighed, sitting back. “It’s manageable because it’s a supporting role with minimal press. We’re filming in town, so I won’t be flying out. If it was anything more, I’d turn it down.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ll talk to production about anything else once I’m a little further along. I think they’ll be cool about it.”

Michael rubbed her knuckles. “That’s good. Just don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Promise.”

He gave her a look. “You sure?”

Wunmi exhaled. “Yes, baby. You weren’t like this before.”

Michael smiled, leaning in again. “Because you weren’t carrying my baby before.”

She blinked at him, caught off-guard by the way he said it. 

And in that second, she wanted to kiss him right across the table.

-

The call sheet said lunch was at 12:30. Michael was already waiting by 12:10.

He leaned against the shaded side of her trailer, sunglasses pulled down low. In one hand, he held a small container of cut fruit, and in the other, his phone that he barely glanced at.

The second the trailer door opened, his posture straightened.

Wunmi stepped out, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’d been holding tension since her morning scenes. Her eyes scanned the lot automatically, softening the moment she saw him.

“Hey, baby,” he said, walking toward her with quiet purpose.

She exhaled and let him take the tote bag off her shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmured, reaching for the fruit without asking.

Michael kissed the side of her head and guided her toward a small quiet bench tucked behind the trailers. He already knew what to avoid, no grilled onions, no garlic, and absolutely no mint. She’d warned him more than once that her stomach was unpredictable these days.

“You good?” he asked as they sat.

“Getting there,” she said, chewing slowly. “They were using some kind of cologne in wardrobe earlier. Almost had me out.”

She rested her hand on her belly. The bump wasn’t huge, but it was real now. Real enough for her to wear maternity leggings under costume. Enough for her to notice the shift in how she walked, how she sat, how she breathed.

Michael’s hand slid to her thigh, warm and steady.

“You told the AD if you needed longer between setups, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And I’m not pushing myself like I promised.”

He looked at her for a moment, not saying anything, just searching her face. Then he nodded and leaned back a little.

“Doctor’s appointment Friday,” he said, smiling now. “We’re almost out of the first trimester.”

“I know,” Wunmi said, more quietly. “It feels like it snuck up.”

Michael chuckled. “I’ve been counting down.”

“For the milestone?”

“For the gender reveal,” he said, already grinning.

Wunmi gave him a look. “You really think you know?”

“I do know.”

“You’ve been saying girl since day one.”

“Because I’m right,” he said confidently. “I feel it.”

Wunmi raised her brows, unimpressed. “You also said that lemon tart from the bakery wouldn’t make me sick and guess who lost her whole evening?”

Michael winced. “Okay, yes. But this is different.”

“Sure.”

He just smiled and reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips.

“You good to go back in a bit?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll rest for a few more minutes, then head back.”

Michael looked down at her stomach, his palm gently resting over her hand.

“She’s the boss,” he murmured.

“They,” Wunmi corrected.

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Four Months - August

The soft click of the car doors closing sealed them in a quiet bubble, just the two of them. Wunmi leaned back in her seat, hand resting lightly on her stomach, her body exhaling in a way it hadn’t been able to inside the sterile calm of the exam room.

Michael slid into the driver’s seat and just sat for a second, looking over at her.

“You good?”

Wunmi turned her head, nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think it’s just hitting me that we’re already here.”

Michael smiled, reaching over to take her hand. “Second trimester, baby. We made it.”

He kissed her knuckles, holding onto her a second longer than usual before starting the engine.

The drive was short, but quiet. The kind of peaceful silence that comes with a shared sense of calm.

“She said we get to know the gender in a few weeks,” Michael said, glancing over at her again. “You still wanna know?”

“I definitely want to know,” Wunmi said, eyes on the road ahead. “You’re dying to be proven right.”

“Because I will be,” he grinned. “That little girl energy’s too strong.”

Wunmi gave him a side-eye. “If it’s a boy, are you gonna sulk?”

“I’ll sulk while holding my son proudly,” he said, laughing.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and Michael glanced over again, his tone shifting.

“So are you ready to tell the family?”

Wunmi nodded. “It feels like time.”

Michael’s smile widened. “We can do it Sunday. Everybody’s already coming over for dinner anyway. We can just slide it in.”

“Slide it in?” she repeated with a soft laugh. “You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls, and you know it.”

“I’ve been sitting on this news for months,” he said, practically vibrating now. “I’ve been around my mom every other day trying not to say anything. I need this.”

Wunmi shook her head, amused. “She’s gonna scream.”

“She’s gonna cry,” Michael corrected. “Then scream. Then probably try to move in.”

“I’m bracing myself.”

He reached over and rested his hand gently over hers, their fingers intertwined over the soft curve of her bump.

-

Inside, the house was alive. Laughter drifting from the kitchen, the sound of silverware being set on the dining table, and the high-pitched voices of children echoing down the hallway.

Michael lit up immediately, already reaching for the bags of wine and dessert they brought.

Wunmi walked in behind him, smiling, but softer. Her body was already reminding her of the sleep she didn’t get last night. Because of the stretch in her back she hadn’t been able to get comfortable with in bed. Her smile was there, but it took effort to hold.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Michael’s mom said, moving in for a hug. “You look beautiful.”

“Hi, Ms. Donna,” Wunmi replied, voice soft, arms wrapping around her gently. “You too.”

Michael was already halfway to the kitchen, greeting his siblings. His niece and nephew ran up to him like they hadn’t seen him in years, even though it had only been a couple weeks.

Donna held onto Wunmi for a second longer than necessary.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice low enough that the noise from the kitchen didn’t drown it out. “You look tired, baby.”

Wunmi offered a small smile, pressing her hand lightly to her temple. “I’m alright. It’s been a busy couple of weeks. I think my body’s trying to catch up.”

Donna studied her for a beat, but didn’t push. Just gave her hand a quick squeeze and led her inside.

By the time they made it to the dining room, Michael was already settling in. Wunmi eased into the chair beside him, trying not to let how tired she felt show in her posture. He glanced at her once they were seated, hand finding her knee beneath the table.

“You sure you’re good?” he whispered.

She gave him a soft nod. “I’m good. Just ready for after we tell them.”

Michael’s smile was boyish, giddy. “We’re almost there.”

Dinner began with the usual family energy, clinking silverware, loud conversation overlapping, the kids asking for more mac and cheese.

Donna sat at the head of the table, watching everything, always one eye on Wunmi. Wunmi picked at her food, still eating, but slower than usual.

Michael noticed. His fingers tapped a small rhythm on her knee again, something between encouragement and distraction.

As the plates began to empty and the noise settled slightly, Michael sat up straighter, catching his sister’s eye across the table.

“Alright,” he said, raising his voice just enough, “before dessert, Wunmi and I got something we wanna share.”

The table quieted gradually. Donna was already squinting at him.

“Oh, Lord,” his sister muttered. “You’re not eloping, are you?”

Michael grinned. “Nope. We’re still planning the wedding.”

He looked down at Wunmi, who gave him the tiniest nod.

He turned back to the family, chest full.

“But before the wedding we’re having a baby.”

The room stilled for half a second, and then it erupted.

Michael’s sister, Jamila, was the first to launch out of her chair.

“Oh my God!” she squealed, half running around the table to wrap her arms around Wunmi from the side. “You’re serious? You’re really pregnant?!”

Wunmi laughed, a little caught off guard but let herself be wrapped up.

“Just past three months,” she said. “We wanted to wait before saying anything.”

Meanwhile, on the other end of the table, Michael’s father had leaned back in his chair, hands resting over his stomach, a quiet smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His gaze landed on his son, then drifted to Wunmi.

“Well,” he said after a moment, voice low but proud. “I was wondering when you’d step into this part of manhood.”

Michael straightened a bit, the compliment settling deep in his chest.

“Thank you, Pops,” he said, voice quiet.

His father nodded once, approving.

Michael’s brother, Khalid, stayed seated, a slow nod on his face. He wasn’t unkind, just a little more reserved, not as quick to show big emotion.

“Congrats, man,” he said, lifting his glass a bit. “That’s huge.”

Wunmi gave him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

But it was Donna, who had remained quiet the longest, that drew the room’s attention again. She was still seated, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other reaching slowly across the table for Wunmi’s free hand.

“You’re really having a baby,” she said, tears now slipping freely.

Wunmi blinked fast, her own emotions rising. “Yeah…yeah, we are.”

Donna squeezed her hand, then turned her eyes to Michael, wide, proud, soft. “You’re going to be a father. My baby is going to be a father.”

Michael’s throat tightened, and he nodded, trying to keep his own emotions tucked in. “I know, Ma.”

Donna stood finally and pulled Wunmi into a hug. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she whispered. “And for letting me love this baby already.”

Wunmi held her close, eyes closing. “You’re family. Of course.”

Michael watched from a step away, his hand still curled at the back of his neck like he couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding.

The room began to buzz again with more questions, more laughter, the kids trying to figure out what it meant to “have a cousin on the way.”

-

The call had barely connected before Wunmi’s full name rang out across the screen in her mother’s voice.

“Oluwunmi! You’re late. We’ve been waiting for you!”

Her mother’s image popped up first, seated in her favorite spot by the living room window, framed by warm light and familiar curtains. One of her sisters was leaning against the back of the couch, and the other was already peering into the camera.

Her father’s voice came from off-screen. “Is it working?”

Wunmi smiled through the screen, nestled beside Michael on their couch. “It’s working, Daddy. You’re sideways, though.”

There was more fumbling then he appeared properly, glasses low on his nose, already squinting with suspicion. “Why are you two calling together like this? You’ve been calling alone lately.”

Michael chuckled. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Michael,” he replied. “But I know something’s up.”

“Something is definitely up,” Wunmi’s older sister added. “Look at the glow on her.”

“Everyone, wait,” her mother said, already narrowing her eyes. “What is it, Wunmi? What have you come to say?”

Wunmi took a breath and looked at Michael, who gave her a nod and squeezed her hand.

She turned back to the screen. “I wanted to wait until I was sure. We both did. But…I’m pregnant.”

The silence lasted less than two seconds.

Then:

“Oluwunmi!” “Ah! Jesu!”  “Oh my God!”  “Wunmi! Are you serious?!”

Her mother covered her mouth with both hands, eyes instantly filling. Her father blinked, still absorbing, then stood up like he needed to physically process it. One of her sisters clapped her hands, while the other wiped tears that had already started falling.

Wunmi laughed, her own eyes burning now. “I’m twelve weeks. We just had a check-up. Everything looks good.”

“You didn’t tell us sooner!” her mother cried, half-laughing now. “You kept this to yourself?”

“I wanted to wait,” Wunmi said gently. “You know I didn’t want to rush news like this.”

“You are carrying my grandchild,” her father said, voice low but full. “You’ve made us so proud. So proud.”

“I’m still shaking,” one of her sisters said, wiping her face. “You’re going to be a mummy!”

“Your bump is coming soon!” another added. “I’m planning baby clothes already.”

Michael leaned in, smiling, his hand resting gently on Wunmi’s knee.

“And what of you, Michael?” her father asked, eyes suddenly sharper. “Are you looking after her?”

Michael nodded seriously. “Every day, sir. I don’t let her lift a finger if I can help it.”

That seemed to satisfy him, a bit.

“Good. You’ll need to do even more soon.”

“Wunmi,” her mother said again, voice softer now, eyes glassy, “you’re going to come home, yes? To rest before the baby comes?”

“We’re planning it,” Wunmi said. “We’re thinking around November. But I want to come home for a bit, yes.”

“You must. We’ll get the room ready,” her mum said, wiping her cheeks. “And start stocking up. The aunties will want to see you.”

Wunmi smiled, overwhelmed but glowing. “I know.”

Her full name came again, softer this time. “Oluwunmi, I’m so proud of you, my daughter.”

Michael kissed her temple as her eyes filled again.

And across the sea, their family, loud, tearful, and full of love, carried them into this new chapter like only family could.

-

The sound of the bathroom fan buzzed softly, mixed with the harsh retch of Wunmi’s body pushing back against her. She knelt over the toilet, one hand braced on the floor, the other weakly pushing her curls away from her face.

Michael was right behind her. Just like he had been the past few nights and every early morning since this started.

He sat on the cool tile, shirtless, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand gently rubbing her back in slow, wide circles. His other hand held a half-empty water bottle he kept offering between breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Wunmi murmured, voice hoarse, forehead resting briefly on her arm.

“Don’t be,” he said softly, brushing her shoulder with the side of his thumb. “Ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

Her stomach twisted again, and she barely had time to lean forward before another wave hit her. Michael stayed close, breathing slowly beside her, grounding her.

When it passed, she sagged again, wiping her mouth with the tissue he handed her.

“I thought this part was supposed to be over,” she whispered.

“Everybody’s different,” he said gently. 

Wunmi reached for the water, took a slow sip, then closed her eyes. She felt wrung out like all her strength was somewhere at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Her limbs were heavy and her skin felt too tight.

Michael shifted behind her and opened his arms. “Come here.”

She let him pull her into his lap, her back against his chest, her head falling against his collarbone. He wrapped both arms around her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

They sat like that on the floor, bodies warm against the cold tile.

“I don’t like feeling this weak,” she whispered.

“You’re not weak,” he said immediately, firm. “You’re doing something your body’s never done before.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slow.

His hand slid gently over her bump, his palm resting there as if that alone could absorb some of the weight.

They stayed there in silence, letting the morning move slowly around them.

-

The room was cool and softly lit, designed to be calming, but Michael’s knee was still bouncing. He was practically vibrating in the chair beside her.

Wunmi lay back on the exam table, her bump fully visible now beneath the soft curve of her shirt. The ultrasound tech was adjusting the machine with a calm confidence that made Wunmi feel at ease.

Wunmi reached out and caught his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Relax,” she whispered, a small smirk on her face. “You’re shaking the floor.”

“I’m cool,” he said, too quickly. “Super cool.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’re about to be annoying, I can feel it.”

“I’m manifesting,” he whispered dramatically.

Wunmi just rolled her eyes, laughing quietly.

The tech dimmed the lights a bit further and adjusted the gel bottle. “Okay, it’ll be a little cool.”

Wunmi winced slightly as the gel hit her stomach, and Michael instinctively tightened his grip on her hand.

The tech moved the transducer across Wunmi’s belly, her eyes scanning the monitor with practiced ease. The soft sound of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room.

Michael’s whole body stilled at the sound. He never got used to it.

“There’s your little one,” She said with a soft smile. “Everything’s looking right on track. A strong heartbeat and good growth.”

Wunmi’s eyes stayed on the screen. Michael leaned forward like he could somehow will himself closer to the baby through the monitor.

After a few minutes of scanning and typing, the tech paused.

“Would you like to know the gender?”

Michael answered before Wunmi could even part her lips.

“Yes, please,” he blurted.

Wunmi shot him a look, half-amused, half “really?”

He mouthed, “Sorry,” but his eyes were so hopeful she couldn’t even be mad.

The tech smiled and rotated the transducer slightly. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The room held its breath.

Michael leaned closer. Wunmi’s heart pounded, but she stayed still, her fingers tightening around his.

“Well,” Nadine said, still smiling, “congratulations. You’re having a girl.”

Michael froze for a full second.

“I knew it!” he whispered, grinning so wide it looked like his whole face lit up. “I told you!”

Wunmi blinked, then covered her mouth as a soft, stunned laugh escaped. Her other hand pressed lightly to her belly.

“A girl,” she repeated, almost to herself. “We’re having a girl.”

Michael was already kissing her knuckles, his voice low but fierce. “That’s our daughter. That’s my girl.”

The tech continued scanning for a few more minutes, walking them through anatomy details and giving them a few printed stills.

Michael barely looked away from Wunmi the entire time.

“You alright?” he asked her softly once the room began to brighten again.

She nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Hearing it out loud made it real.”

Michael kissed her forehead. “She’s gonna change our whole world.”

October - Six Months

The bathroom light clicked off with a soft hum, and Michael stepped back into the bedroom, towel in hand, hair still damp from the shower. The room was mostly dark, save for the faint glow of the hallway light spilling through the slightly open door.

He expected Wunmi to still be awake. She had said she was going to scroll on her phone for a bit. But when he looked toward the bed, he found her already asleep.

Her hand rested loosely over her bump, lips parted slightly, one leg stretched out long beneath the sheets. And she was on her back.

He knew what the doctor had said. That around this point in the pregnancy, sleeping on your back could restrict blood flow, something about the weight of the uterus pressing on a vein, or something he couldn’t quite pronounce. He remembered the way the nurse had looked at him like he needed to take this seriously.

He dropped the towel at the foot of the bed, walked barefoot over to her side, and crouched down slowly beside her.

“Babe,” he whispered gently, brushing a curl from her cheek.

She stirred, murmured something he couldn’t catch.

Michael leaned in, kissed her temple. “I’m just gonna turn you a little, okay?”

She made a sleepy noise of agreement and let him guide her carefully onto her side, tucking one pillow behind her back and another between her knees. She was still half-asleep, but her body shifted with ease, like it knew it would rest better this way.

Once she was settled, Michael adjusted the blanket around her, then stood back, watching. She looked peaceful again.

He turned off the hallway light and climbed into bed, lying behind her, not too close, just enough to keep a hand on her hip and feel the rise and fall of her breath.

Every hour or so, he’d stir. And every time he did, he’d glance over to make sure she hadn’t shifted back.

By morning, before she even opened her eyes, he was already scrolling on his phone, checking reviews for the best pregnancy pillows.

-

The nursery had started to come alive box by box.

The wall’s paint had dried earlier in the week: soft, dusty pink on the upper walls, cream on the lower half, and a warm, earthy brown accent arch around where the crib would go. It looked exactly like the Pinterest board Wunmi had shown Michael three weeks ago, down to the shade.

Now it was just about pulling it all together.

Michael was crouched in the middle of the floor, screwdriver in one hand, instruction manual in the other. The crib was only halfway built, and the dresser parts weren’t even out of the box yet.

In the corner, Wunmi was curled up on the small couch under a knitted throw, one hand gently resting on her belly, the other slowly reaching into a bowl of spicy cassava chips. A tub of Greek yogurt sat nearby to offset the heartburn that was already threatening.

Her face pinched mid-chew. “I shouldn’t be eating this,” she mumbled to herself.

Michael called out, “Is that the heartburn snack again?”

“Don’t judge me,” she groaned.

“I wasn’t judging. Just confirming.”

Wunmi sighed and set the bowl aside. “You don’t understand. It’s all I want. But every bite feels like my chest is on fire by the end.”

Michael poked his head into the hallway. “Because you’ve had nothing but spicy food and citrus for the last four days.”

She narrowed her eyes  but didn’t argue. “How’s the crib?”

Michael’s expression said everything. “We are not on speaking terms.”

Wunmi laughed softly, but even that took effort. Her energy had been off for days. Her nausea had crept back like an unwanted guest. Her back ached. Her ankles were starting to swell. And all of that on top of the emotional weight of doing everything and nothing at once.

She wanted to be helping, directing, assembling, folding, nesting.

Instead, she was parked on the couch.

“I hate this,” she murmured more to herself than him.

Michael looked up again, this time gentler. “Hate what?”

“Not being able to do more. I feel like I’m just sitting here while you build everything.”

“You are literally building a person inside you right now,” he said, standing fully. “I just opened a crib box. Let’s keep the perspective straight.”

Wunmi blinked back something tight in her chest. “Yeah but it still sucks. I like being hands-on. Right now I just feel…heavy, useless, and hormonal.”

Michael walked over to her slowly, crouched in front of her, and took both her hands in his.

“You’re tired. And sick. And you’ve got fire in your chest every time you eat something that makes you feel okay for five seconds. You’re showing more, which means your whole body is shifting every hour.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “You are not useless. You’re just human. A human doing the most miraculous, exhausting thing in the world.”

She closed her eyes, her chin quivering slightly.

“You still mad about the crib?” he asked, trying to soften the moment.

“A little.”

Michael grinned. “Fair.”

He stood and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Let me finish this room.”

She smiled despite herself and curled deeper into the blanket.

Michael stepped back toward the nursery, cracking his knuckles. “Alright. I’m building this crib before sunset if it kills me.”

November - Seven Months

Michael sat on set, leaning back in the interview chair, hands clasped in his lap, eyes drifting toward the door every few seconds. His publicist had told him it was a interview for a digital feature but he had no clue who was interviewing him, just that it was meant to be “light and fun.”

He was exhausted from press and it’d been over two weeks since he’s been home.

But something about the way they told him to “just be open” made him sit up straighter.

They called out, “We’re rolling!”

Michael adjusted his mic, looked toward the entrance, and then the door opened.

Wunmi walked in with her hair up, skin glowing, off-the-shoulder black dress that hugged her body, and her bump, like it had been poured on. She was radiant and smiling.

Michael’s lips parted. “Oh, wow…”

She walked straight onto the set and offered her hand like they’d never met.

“Hi, I’m Wunmi. Thanks for sitting down with me.”

Michael took her hand slowly, still staring. “Michael. It’s…really good to meet you.”

They both sat, the silence stretching between them charged and knowing.

“Alright,” she said, opening a small notepad like she actually had notes. “You’ve got a new film coming out. It’s a lot more action packed than what you normally do.”

Michael raised a brow, eyes locked on her. “Yeah, there was a lot of different types of training I had to do,” he said slowly. 

Wunmi smiled. “So what drew you to the project?”

“I think I just wanted to prove I could do something different,” he said, his voice dipping low. 

Wunmi crossed her legs slowly. “What was the most challenging part of filming?”

Michael didn’t miss a beat. “Not being distracted by thoughts of someone else.”

Wunmi blinked slowly, holding back a grin. “You should try staying focused.”

“I was focused,” he said, eyes moving over her. “Just not on the right things.”

She cleared her throat, sitting up slightly. “Okay…last question.”

Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Go for it.”

“If you weren’t working so much, if you had time,” she said slowly, voice steady, “and you met someone…let’s say, hypothetically, during an interview. Someone who made it a little hard to concentrate. Would you pursue her?”

Michael let a smile stretch across his face. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Well,” he said, “can I get your number?”

Wunmi arched a brow. “I don’t give my number out to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger,” he said softly. “Not to you.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t know if I have a man.”

Michael looked her dead in the eye, smiling like he already knew the answer. “Do you?”

Wunmi’s smile widened as she stood slowly, slipping the mic off.

Michael watched her walk off, eyes shamelessly following every step.

The second the crew called “cut,” Michael was already on his feet.

He barely remembered to unclip his mic before moving, handing it off blindly, his eyes trained on the direction Wunmi had walked off in. One of the assistants tried to stop him with a clipboard, asking for something. He waved them off gently.

“I’ll circle back,” he muttered. “Give me a second.”

The hallway backstage was quiet and cool, lined with production crates and folding chairs. And there she was, leaning casually against the wall, scrolling through her phone. She looked up the moment he turned the corner. And then she smiled. The one he hadn’t seen in person for two weeks. The one that crinkled her nose and made her whole face glow.

Michael didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space in a few long strides and wrapped his arms around her carefully, but with so much intent. He avoided her bump automatically. One hand braced her back, the other cupped the back of her head as he kissed her temple, then her cheek, then just held her there.

“Hi,” she whispered against him.

Michael exhaled against her hair, eyes shut tight.

“Damn, I missed you.”

She melted into him, her fingers curling gently into the front of his shirt.

“I missed you too,” she said. “And I’m mad at how well you played along in that interview. You didn’t break once.”

“I was dying inside,” he admitted, grinning as he leaned back just enough to see her face. “You came out in that dress and I almost forgot what movie I was there to promote.”

Wunmi laughed softly, brushing a hand down his chest. “You look tired.”

“I am,” he said. “But seeing you really woke me up.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Then pulled back, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to memorize it again.

“You busy tonight?”

“I have a date,” she teased.

“Oh yeah?” he grinned. “What’s he like?”

“He’s annoying,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “But he loves me really well.”

Michael leaned in, his voice low against her cheek. “Good. ’Cause he’s already making a reservation at that place you’ve been craving. And if you're too tired to go out, he’s got the candles and foot rubs ready at home.”

She looked at him, visibly softening.

“We need that, huh?”

Michael nodded, threading their fingers tighter. “Yeah. Just you and me. And maybe that lemon sorbet you’ve been talking about.”

“You remembered that?”

“Baby, I remember everything. I’ve been counting the minutes.”

Wunmi smiled and tugged gently on his hand. “Let’s go home.”

He didn't even think twice.

-

Wunmi eased herself into the bath the moment they got home. The warm water cradling her back, steam rising gently, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She let her head fall back against the rim of the tub, eyes closed, hands resting over her bump. The ache in her lower back was real and the weight in her belly heavier than usual, but the water helped.

From the other side of the bathroom, she heard the soft sound of the shower turning on. Michael had stripped out of his clothes and moved behind the glass and stepped in with a long, quiet groan of relief.

“I missed this,” he said finally over the spray of the water.

Wunmi hummed. “What, showering next to me?”

“Yes, but more than that. I missed being home with you.”

She smiled softly, eyes still closed. “Me too.”

By the time they dried off and got into bed, everything felt softer. Michael climbed in behind her without a word, still warm and faintly damp from the shower. He settled against her back, one arm slipping around her belly, the other tucked beneath her pillow.

Wunmi curled into him instinctively, one of his legs tangled with hers. The TV played some comfort sitcom they weren’t really watching.

Michael’s hand slid up beneath her sleep shirt because that’s where his hand always went. He stroked slow, lazy lines just under her breasts, thumb brushing over the top curve.

Wunmi let out a breath, her body relaxing further into his. He kissed the back of her shoulder softly. Then again. And her hips shifted, just a little, but not on purpose.

Michael stilled, then adjusted slightly behind her, just enough for her to feel the pressure of him unmistakably aware of her body pressed up against his. Wunmi’s breath caught.

“Sorry,” Michael murmured against her skin, his voice low and heavy. “I wasn’t trying to–”

“I know,” she whispered, not moving. “It’s okay.”

His hand moved lower, resting beneath the swell of her belly now. 

They stayed like that for a few seconds, the air thickening quietly. Her body pulsed as if remembering something it hadn’t had the energy to feel in weeks.

He kissed her shoulder again. Then her neck. His hand slipped along her thigh.

“Michael,” she breathed.

They were still curled against each other, the low murmur of the TV flickering across the dark room, but neither of them were paying attention to it anymore.

Wunmi shifted slightly in Michael’s arms, her hips pressing back into him in a slow, deliberate rhythm. It wasn’t an accident this time.

“Babe?” he murmured, voice gravel-low.

She turned her head toward him, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. “I want you.”

He searched her face, as if waiting to be sure. “You sure you feel up for it?”

“I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispered. “I’m sure, babe.”

Her body hadn’t given her much grace the past two months. Between the heartburn, nausea, and the ever-growing ache in her joints, she hadn’t been in the space to want anything other than comfort. But now, here in the quiet with her body pressed against his, she was craving not just closeness, but him.

She reached for his hand and guided it up, slipping beneath the edge of her shirt to rest over her breast. They were fuller, heavier, and far more sensitive than before. When his palm covered her and squeezed gently, a soft moan slipped from her lips.

Michael’s breath hitched. “Damn, I missed touching you.”

“I missed you touching me. It’s been so long,” she whispered.

He leaned in, kissing along her jaw, letting his hand mold to her breast again, thumb grazing the peak slowly, carefully. Her back arched in response, her hips rolling again, more insistent this time.

She reached behind herself, pulling his other hand down between her thighs, guiding him beneath the band of her panties. He found her already warm and pulsing.

“You’re so ready for me,” he said against her skin, voice barely holding.

“It’s all yours,” she whispered.

He took his time with his fingers stroking gently, and lips on her neck, her shoulder, her spine. Her body trembled with every pass of his hand, every squeeze of his fingers on her breast. He eased inside her from behind and they both gasped like they’d been holding their breath for months.

Michael moved slowly at first, his arm anchored beneath her belly, the other wrapped around her chest. He kissed her neck and her ear, whispering soft nothings while their bodies moved together again. Her breath came in whimpers, quiet but desperate, each thrust bringing her higher.

“I got you,” he kept saying. “I got you.”

When her body tightened and she came, she curled forward, hand fisting the sheets, the tension unraveling in waves. But Michael didn’t stop. He lifted one of her legs, easing it over his forearm, sinking deeper with a low groan.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, her voice cracking.

He kept stroking her breast with his free hand, just enough to keep her spiraling, while he moved inside her. She gasped with every shift of his hips, body oversensitive but clinging to the sensation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered.

“It’s perfect,” she moaned.

And when he came, he buried his face in her neck and held her like he didn’t want to let go, like all the miles, all the nights apart had finally melted away in the heat of their skin.

Michael hadn’t realy planned on doing more. But her body, the way she trembled against him after that first release, the way she gasped when he stayed inside her, undid him. He was far from done.

Her skin was glowing with heat, chest rising and falling, and he could feel her still pulsing around him. 

“Don’t move,” he whispered into her hair, voice thick with desire.

Wunmi hummed, too breathless to speak. Her body already limp in his arms.

Michael kissed her shoulder, then gently pulled back, guiding her onto her hands and knees. He moved slowly, checking her every reaction as he repositioned her. She followed with lazy obedience, blinking sleepily as he added a stack of pillows beneath her hips, tilting her body just right.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing his knuckles down her spine.

Wunmi nodded once, cheek pressed to the sheets. “Yeah. I just…”

But the words drifted off. Her body was saying yes before her voice could catch up.

Michael pushed her sleep shirt up just enough to expose the curve of her back and the heavy, sensitive fullness of her breasts. He didn't take it off. He liked how she looked in it. His palm smoothed down her back, gripping her hips and spreading her legs just a little wider.

And then he pushed back into her.

She cried out, not from pain, but from the sharp shock of pleasure and pressure. Her arms braced against the mattress, breath catching as he filled her again, deeper now, her hips perfectly angled by the pillows.

Michael groaned, head falling back as he rolled his hips into hers with practiced rhythm. It wasn’t gentle now, not this time. His body was moving on pure instinct, chasing the sounds she made, the tight pulse of her around him, the way her back arched and trembled with every stroke.

Her whines turned into moans, then something more guttural, higher-pitched. The kind of noises he’d only ever heard when she was completely overwhelmed. 

He watched her carefully as she tried to hold on, gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white. Her sleep shirt rode up further with every thrust, bunching under her arms, the fabric tugging with the rhythm of his body against hers. Her breasts bounced freely now, and Michael reached forward, cupping one in his hand, thumb grazing over the peak.

She shuddered violently beneath him.

“I got it, baby,” he panted, voice low and urgent in her ear. “Just stay right there and take it.”

She tried to answer but all that came out was a long, helpless moan. Her whole body shaking, her hips trying to push back into him but barely able to match his rhythm.

Michael’s grip on her hips tightened, and he gave her a sharp, controlled smack on her backside just enough to make her jolt and gasp again.

He was obsessed with the way she sounded; those breathless little hiccups, the trembling whimpers, her whispered curses broken up by moans.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, but it was teasing now. He already knew.

She tried to say something–anything–but her voice cracked, and she couldn’t form a single word.

“Feels that good, huh?” he said, barely able to get the words out himself. “Damn.”

He wasn’t rushing. Just giving her deep, powerful strokes, angled to hit every sweet spot. His hand still working her breast gently and his body anchored behind her like he never wanted to leave.

When she came again, it was silent at first. Her mouth open, face buried in the sheets, body spasming so hard she nearly collapsed into the pillows. He held her up through it, whispering encouragement, slowing down just enough to help her ride it out without falling apart completely.

And even after he followed, shuddering, breath caught in his chest, filling her slow and deep, he didn’t pull out. Not right away.

His hands smoothed up her back, slow and soothing now. He kissed the middle of her spine and whispered soft things; “you’re so perfect,” “I missed you,” “I needed that more than I knew.” His hips stilled, but he stayed buried deep, and Wunmi whimpered at the sensitivity, twitching beneath him.

His other hand stroked along her thigh, slow and grounding, while he kissed the back of her shoulder and murmured, “You okay?”

She nodded, face still buried in the pillow, her whole body humming with aftershocks.

“You feel me?” he whispered, massaging small, slow circles into her back.

She let out a shaky breath and nodded.

He chuckled low, half-pride, half-awe.

“Yeah,” he said, brushing her hair from her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He stayed there, still buried deep inside her, rocking his hips slowly.

-

Michael sat up in bed, propped against a couple of pillows, legs stretched out under the covers. The TV was on low, playing some movie he wasn’t paying attention to. His hand moved absently along Wunmi’s back, just under the fabric of her shirt. She hadn’t budged since they fell asleep.

She was curled on her side, arms tucked beneath the pillow, lips parted just slightly. Her chest rose and fell in deep rhythm, a gentle snore slipping out every few minutes. The same soft rasp that had started a few weeks ago. The one he secretly loved.

She looked peaceful. Heavy with rest. Her skin glowed in the morning light, hair a little wild against the pillowcase, one leg curled up and the bump prominent beneath the sheets.

Michael smiled to himself as he scrolled through the pictures on his phone.

There was one of her from the night before sitting across from him at the diner, laughing mid-bite, hand bracing her stomach like the baby had kicked right in the middle of a joke. Then another of her in the parking lot with her hair up, eyes sleepy but still smiling.

He sat with the photos for a minute. Then he selected them all, typed in a caption, and hit post:

before the storm 🍼

He didn’t think much of it. But within ten minutes, his phone lit up with texts, mentions, and missed calls. 

And then, his family decided to do a group video call. He chuckled and answered with a lazy swipe.

The screen filled instantly with his mom, Donna, on one side with her hair in a wrap and coffee in hand, Jamila half-ready for something, and Khalid calling in from what looked like his office.

Donna leaned in closer. “Where’s Wunmi?”

Michael angled the phone a little, showing Wunmi still asleep next to him, curled in deep with the blankets pushed low over her belly.

“There she go,” Khalid said quietly, watching the screen.

“She okay?” Jamila asked softly.

“She’s good,” Michael said. His hand returned to rubbing her back gently, like his body couldn’t help it. “Doctor said everything’s on track. She was just so exhausted last night. Slept through the whole night.”

Donna’s eyes welled up. “She looks like she needed that sleep so bad.”

“She did,” Michael nodded. “She’s been hurting, nauseous, restless, so she couldn’t get comfortable for weeks.”

“Y’all planning to go to the UK soon?” Jamila asked.

“Yeah. In the next week or so. She wants to go there before she’s too far along to travel comfortably. We’re gonna stay a bit.”

“What about names?” Khalid asked, because of course.

Michael smiled, glancing back at Wunmi. “We got some ideas, but we’re waiting to meet her first. Let her tell us.”

Donna nodded, eyes soft. “That’s the right move.”

They stayed on the call for a little while longer, chatting, catching up, the screen occasionally flashing back to Wunmi asleep, none the wiser to the joy her stillness was bringing them all.

And when the call ended, Michael set his phone down, slipped lower under the covers, and pulled Wunmi gently into him again. Carefully, like if he moved too much, he might wake her from the best sleep she’d had in months.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached their floor, and Michael stepped out first, his hand already on the handle of both of the large suitcases, the carry-on slung over his shoulder. He glanced back to make sure Wunmi was close behind, and she was, but barely.

She looked gorgeous as always, even in a hoodie and travel leggings, even with her curls tied back and her eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. But she moved slow, the ache in her back obvious in the way she kept pressing one hand just under the curve of her belly.

“You good?” he asked, pausing to unlock the hotel door.

“Barely,” she mumbled. 

Michael chuckled softly as the door swung open. The suite was cozy, soft-lit, and quiet. Exactly what she needed.

“You’re not doing anything until you rest,” he said gently.

“I should shower first–”

“You can do that after the nap.”

“I should–”

“Babe,” he said, looking at her with the look he used when he wanted her to listen. “No one’s gonna see you until you’re good and rested. I already told your mom we were landing late. You’ve been uncomfortable since hour three on that plane. Come on.”

Wunmi didn’t fight it. She just kicked off her shoes near the bed and sighed, one hand still bracing her lower back. “Feels like my spine's in a knot.”

Michael was already helping her onto the mattress. “Let me fix it.”

She gave him a tired side-eye. “You’re not a chiropractor.”

“Maybe not,” he said, grabbing a pillow. “But I know your body, and I know what helps.”

He helped her onto her hands and knees slowly, propping a few pillows under her chest for support, letting her drop her weight forward. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, positioned himself behind her, and placed both hands on the small of her back. And then he got to work.

His thumbs moved in slow, firm circles with just enough pressure to release the tension tucked deep in her muscles. He worked across her lower back, down to the sides of her hips, easing the stiffness out of her.

Wunmi groaned softly, her head dropping onto her crossed arms. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep.”

“That’s the goal.”

Her breathing slowed with every pass of his palms, the tension giving way to comfort, her body sinking lower.

Ten minutes later, she was completely still.

Michael glanced down. Her eyes were shut, face relaxed, and her lips parted just slightly. She was out cold.

Carefully, he helped her shift to her side, adjusted the pillows around her, and pulled the blanket up over her hip. He kissed her temple once before stepping away to grab her charger, quietly setting her phone beside her.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

He smiled and stepped into the sitting area, answering with a gentle swipe. Wunmi’s mother’s face appeared on the screen instantly, glowing with excitement.

“Michael! You made it in one piece!”

“We did,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Just got checked in about twenty minutes ago.”

“Where’s Wunmi? Is she okay?”

Michael flipped the camera gently to show her sound asleep, curled up on the bed, her hand resting gently over her bump.

Her mother smiled, eyes softening. “My baby girl…”

“She didn’t sleep well on the flight,” Michael said, flipping the camera back. “Her back’s been killing her, so I gave her a massage, and she knocked out.”

“Smart man,” her mother chuckled. “She’s lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

They both smiled.

“So what time do you think you’ll head over?” she asked.

Michael checked the clock on the wall. “Give us about two hours? I wanna let her rest. And she’s gonna want to shower and get dressed before seeing everyone.”

“That’s fine! I’ll tell them to hold off. They’ve been excited all morning.”

“Tell ’em we’re on the way soon,” he said with a smile. “And that she’s okay. Just tired.”

“I will,” her mother said warmly. “Thank you, Michael.”

They ended the call, and Michael stepped back into the bedroom, sitting gently at the edge of the bed. He leaned over, brushing a kiss across her shoulder again, whispering into her skin.

“Rest while you can, baby.”

-

The front door had barely opened before it was like the whole house exhaled with joy.

“There they are!” “Look at her belly!” “Uncle Dee, come and see your niece before she disappears into the kitchen!” “Michael! You alright, love? Get in here!”

Michael barely got the door closed before five different people were trying to hug them. Wunmi, already flushed from the warmth and scent of home-cooked food in the air, smiled through it all but tugged gently at her coat, clearly overheating already.

“I got it,” Michael murmured, sliding behind her without missing a beat. His hands carefully worked her out of her coat. “Don’t stretch. I got you.”

She murmured a soft thank you as he folded it in his arm.

But the moment she stepped out, bump fully visible beneath her fitted sweater and pants, the energy shifted.

Michael stood to the side, coat still in his hand, watching as she was enveloped by aunties, cousins, and her siblings, all grinning and cooing, hugging her gently, rubbing her belly with varying levels of permission. Wunmi laughed, overwhelmed in the best way, holding onto her bump like she couldn’t believe how much love it was pulling in.

“I’m not even showing that much,” she mumbled, laughing through her blush.

“Lie again,” one of her cousins teased.

Her mother came around the corner just then, apron on, wiping her hands with a towel, smile wide but calm. She made her way through the crowd and wrapped her arms around Wunmi like she was gathering her whole heart in one embrace.

“My baby,” she whispered.

Wunmi melted into her. “Hi, Mum.”

They pulled apart and her mother’s eyes scanned her daughter’s face, then her belly, then Michael’s face.

“You look well,” she said softly. “Tired. But well.”

She turned to the others. “Alright, everyone out of the kitchen. Let the girl breathe. Food will be ready in a bit.”

Dinner was warm and full. The air thick with laughter, overlapping stories, and the clang of serving spoons against pots. Her mother had made sure everything on the table was safe: no trigger spices, no weird textures that would hit Wunmi’s nausea the wrong way. It was only comfort food, tailored to her daughter’s cravings.

Still, that didn’t stop Wunmi from sneaking off into the kitchen mid-conversation.

Michael noticed, but didn’t follow. He simply smiled when he heard her mother’s voice float out from behind the wall.

“You think I didn’t hear you walking back here?”

Wunmi giggled. “I’m just… checking the stove.”

“Mmhm. Taste this.”

Michael peeked into the kitchen from where he sat and saw Wunmi leaned against the counter, eyes closing with a hum of satisfaction as her mother fed her a small spoonful of something straight from the pot.

“This might actually fix my whole week,” she mumbled.

Her mom grinned. “That’s why I made it. Now go back out there before they think you’ve run off.”

When she returned to the table, Michael took one look at her face and handed her a glass of water like they hadn’t missed a beat. There was a little more color to her cheeks and her eyes were brighter.

“You okay?” he asked softly, leaning in.

“Yeah,” she said, easing into her chair. “She fed me.”

He grinned. “Of course she did.”

And as dinner continued, the room only got louder. Michael let himself fall into the rhythm of her world. This family that loved her out loud, with laughter, food, and open hands.

-

The car was idling at the curb, trunk packed, soft drizzle misting the windows in true northern England fashion. The air was crisp, thick with quiet goodbyes and that particular ache that only comes when you’re about to leave somewhere that feels like your core.

Wunmi stood wrapped in her mother’s arms, her cheek pressed into the familiar curve of her shoulder. Her sisters hovered close by with their eyes misty but they were holding it together.

“Don’t cry,” her mum murmured softly, rocking her just a little like she had when Wunmi was a child. “You know I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Wunmi whispered. But still, her arms stayed tight around her mother’s back.

Michael stood a few steps back, giving them their space. His hoodie was pulled up, hands in his pockets, but his eyes never left Wunmi. He was watching her with that familiar quiet intensity.

Her younger sister stepped forward next, hugging her with a bright, brave smile. “You better call us every day.”

“I will,” Wunmi promised, wiping under her eyes. “And you lot better be there.”

Her mum stepped in again. “We’ve already booked flights. We’ll be in L.A. right before the due date, sooner if needed. I’m not missing my grandbaby.”

Wunmi laughed through a few tears. “You better not.”

The final round of hugs felt slower like the air itself was trying to stretch time. Michael gently stepped in once the goodbyes began to fade, rubbing his hand down Wunmi’s back, grounding her as she leaned into him, a little fragile now.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she mumbled into him.

He kissed her hairline. “We’ll be back. But it’ll be three of us next time.”

Wunmi sniffled, nodding slowly.

Michael turned to her family and offered them that warm, familiar smile. “Thank you.”

“You take care of her,” her mother said.

“Always.”

And he meant it.

He helped Wunmi into the car, held her hand the entire drive to the airport, and stayed quiet while she leaned her head on his shoulder during check-in. Her fingers stayed curled around his even as they went through security, through boarding, through takeoff.

Nine Months - Late January

Wunmi padded softly across the cool kitchen tile, one hand bracing her lower back as she opened the fridge, her other hand cradling her bump. The light spilled over her face as she searched for something simple, something small. Her body felt unsettled. Not in pain, but restless. Her hips ached, her lower belly tugged. The same false starts she’d been having for days now.

She reached for a glass and poured water, just as a low, intense pressure began to climb through her lower back. Then a deep contraction hit, stronger than the others. And it held.

Her hand jerked, and the glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the tile as she doubled over, bracing her palms against the counter, breath catching in her throat.

“Oh–” she whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “Okay. Okay…”

Down the hall, the quiet voices of her and Michael’s mom still up chatting softly in the living room fell silent. They appeared in the kitchen seconds later.

“Wunmi?” her mother called, voice low but sharp.

She didn’t answer right away, focusing instead on deep, steady breaths as she leaned into the counter, her face tight with focus.

Her mother was at her side instantly, one hand sliding to her lower back, rubbing in slow circles.

“Breathe through it, baby. You’ve got it. In through the nose out through the mouth. That’s it.”

Michael’s mom quickly stepped around the glass, eyes scanning her. “That one looked stronger.”

Wunmi nodded, breathless. “Much stronger.”

“You’ve been feeling them all week,” her mom said softly. “But this one’s different, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, still hunched slightly. “It’s not going away like the others.”

Michael’s mom turned toward the stairs. “I’m waking him up.”

By the time Michael came downstairs, shirtless, sweats hanging low on his hips, face tense but calm, Wunmi was upright again, cradling her belly, leaning against the wall with her mother at her side.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low but urgent, walking toward her immediately.

“She had a contraction,” his mom said, hand gently guiding him forward. “And the glass broke. She didn’t fall, she’s okay but it looked like a strong one.”

Michael was already in front of Wunmi, hands on her arms, scanning her face.

“Do you wanna go in?”

Wunmi shook her head slowly. “Not yet. They're still really far apart.”

Michael nodded, cupping the back of her head gently. “Okay. You want to try to sleep?”

She looked at him, eyes tired, voice soft. “Can you lay with me?”

“Of course,” he said, without hesitation.

He helped her out of the kitchen slowly, arm around her waist, avoiding the shards of glass that his mom had already begun sweeping up behind them. Her mother followed close, still watching her closely but not hovering.

Once they got upstairs, Michael settled her into bed first. Then he slid in behind her, wrapping his arm around her front and resting his hand over her bump.

Wunmi let out a shaky breath. “I think this is it.”

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “But we’ve got time.”

And as the house settled with the heaviness of anticipation. Michael stayed alert, hand never leaving her belly.

-

Wunmi shifted in bed, eyes barely fluttering open as another contraction crept up through her back and wrapped around her front. She exhaled slowly, trying to ride it out without waking Michael, but the sound that slipped from her throat was enough.

His eyes snapped open.

“Wunmi?”

She nodded, hand already gripping the side of the bed.

Michael sat up fast, brushing her curls from her damp forehead. “This one bad?”

“It…yeah.”

As if on cue, she whimpered, her fingers digging into the blanket.

Michael picked up the phone on the nightstand, calling the doctor’s on-call number. Within moments, they were patched through.

“She’s having stronger contractions,” he told the nurse calmly. “Yeah… every ten minutes now. No bleeding, but she’s in pain.”

He listened as the nurse explained some things to him, then he nodded. “Okay. We’ll head in.”

He hung up and stood immediately, already grabbing the hospital bag from the corner, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s go. They’re ready for us.”

Wunmi sat on the edge of the bed, bracing herself with both hands. Her legs trembled slightly from the pressure.

“You okay to move?” he asked, crouching in front of her.

She gave a shaky nod. “Yeah. Just help me up.”

Both moms followed closely as Michael carefully guided her downstairs, one arm firm around her waist, the other resting over her belly. She leaned into him the whole way to the car, barely speaking, focused on her breathing.

The drive was quiet and tense. Wunmi sat in the backseat with her mother, eyes squeezed shut during every contraction. Michael drove with one hand on the wheel, the other constantly checking the rearview mirror, his jaw tight but steady.

When they pulled up to the hospital’s private maternity entrance, a nurse and an orderly were already waiting outside with a wheelchair.

Michael parked and jumped out first, swinging open the back door.

“Come on, baby,” he said gently, offering his hand.

Wunmi tried to stand, but halfway up, another contraction hit her hard. Her knees buckled and she doubled over with a groan, gripping his arms.

Michael held her firmly, whispering against her ear. “I got you. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

She nodded with her jaw clenched tight, and her mother rubbing her back while the nurses waited patiently.

As soon as she was upright again and taking a shaky step toward the wheelchair, it happened.

A sudden rush of warmth between her legs. She gasped.

“My water…”

The nurse stepped forward. “It’s okay, that’s normal. We’ll get you inside.”

Michael’s hands were steady, but his eyes flicked with concern. He helped lower her into the wheelchair as gently as possible.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Wunmi panted. “It’s a lot. But I’m okay.”

Michael kissed her forehead and jogged ahead to hold the doors open as the nurse wheeled her in. Both mothers followed quickly behind, bags in tow.

The staff moved fast but calm. Ushering them into a private birthing suite, prepping monitors, gently helping Wunmi out of her clothes and into a gown. Michael never left her side.

One nurse checked her vitals. “You’re still quite early. Only a few centimeters dilated. But labor has definitely started.”

Wunmi nodded slowly, eyes locked on Michael’s.

He stayed close as they helped her into the hospital bed, her mother adjusting her pillows, his mother setting the bag down and pulling out lip balm, snacks, and the little comforts they packed just in case.

And within hours the hospital room changed. 

The lights had been dimmed and voices were lowered. Nurses moved in and out with gentle efficiency, adjusting monitors, checking vitals, keeping track of time. But the clock meant nothing to Wunmi. Not now. Not with her body working in waves and pulses, tightening and releasing with maddening rhythm.

By mid-morning, the contractions had picked up.

They weren’t completely unbearable, not yet. But they were steady. Deep. Demanding.

She was leaning forward arms hooked around Michael’s neck, forehead pressed to his chest as another contraction rolled through her. Her whole body tensed.

Michael stood rock solid, his hands circling slow and firm along her lower back, rubbing in counter-pressure strokes just like the nurse showed him.

“Breathe through it,” he murmured, his lips by her temple. “In and out. You’ve got it, baby. You’re doing so good.”

She gritted her teeth, eyes squeezed shut, letting out a long moan into his shirt.

As soon as the wave passed, her knees gave slightly. Michael caught her instantly.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, voice softer now. “Let’s try the ball next.”

The nurse brought over the yoga ball, and Wunmi eased down onto it slowly with help from both her mom and Michael. She rocked gently, her hips circling in slow figure eights while she braced her hands on her thighs.

Michael knelt in front of her, eyes steady on hers.

“Still okay?”

She nodded, sweat glistening along her brow. “Yeah, I’m managing.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, reaching for a cool cloth to dab her forehead. “You’re doing everything right.”

Her eyes softened at that, and for a moment the pain fell away.

Time moved in blurry loops after that.

She tried to rest between contractions, curled on her side in bed, her mother stroking her braids and Michael lying behind her, hand draped protectively over her bump.

“Try to sleep,” he whispered when her eyes fluttered. 

She did. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe less. But it was something.

When she woke, another contraction had her out of bed again, this one hitting harder. Michael was right there, helping her up, getting her sips of water, feeding her small bites of fruit and plain crackers.

“You gotta keep your strength up,” he said gently, kneeling by the chair where she sat with her feet up, rocking slightly. “Even if it’s just a little.”

She nodded, taking a few bites. “I don’t want to throw it back up.”

“You might and that’s okay. But it’s worth trying.”

He brushed his hand across her thigh, soothing her, anchoring her. Every so often, he’d press a kiss to her knee, her shoulder, her fingers.

Her mom and his mom both rotated in and out, giving them space, coming back with warm compresses and chapstick, quiet prayers and words of encouragement.

But Michael never left.

Even when she got snippy. Even when she cried out and gripped his shirt too hard. Even when she begged to know how much longer and the nurse only answered, “You’re doing beautifully. Keep going.”

Michael was steady.

“You can cuss me out later,” he teased once, brushing hair from her face.

“Good. I will.”

“I expect it.”

They shared a tired laugh, and then another wave hit, and she fell forward into his chest again.

-

The room was quiet now. Not silent, but still. The kind of still that only comes when everything else falls away and only one thing matters.

Wunmi was on her knees, leaned forward over the soft curve of the turquoise birthing stool. Pillows and blankets were stacked beneath her legs to support her hips and knees. Sweat clung to her skin and her body trembled, stretched to its edge. Her forehead pressed to the top of the CUB between contractions, but when the waves came, she gripped the sides and let out deep, primal moans from somewhere far beneath words.

Michael was in front of her on the floor, his knees tucked under him, body bent forward, both arms wrapped around her middle. One hand cradled her back, the other pressed firm and reassuring against her hip. His lips were at her ear, warm breath brushing her cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby. You’ve got this. I swear to God, you’ve got this.”

She whimpered, whole body curling in as another contraction rolled through her like fire.

The midwife crouched behind her, calm and ready, gloves already on. “Okay, Wunmi,” she said gently, “you’re fully dilated. The baby’s right there. We’re going to breathe through the next one and then start pushing, alright?”

Wunmi nodded once, jaw clenched, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Michael kissed her temple. “You’re safe. Just listen to your body.”

She clutched tighter to the CUB as the next contraction surged forward like a wave breaking open. The midwife’s voice guided her through it, but it was Michael’s hands that held her, grounded her, his voice steady in her ear.

“Push, love. Just like that. Come on. I see you. She’s so close.”

Wunmi groaned through gritted teeth, her entire body bearing down with all its strength. She sobbed once, gasped, and Michael caught her head gently as it dropped forward.

“You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered, forehead to hers. “You’re bringing our girl home.”

Both of their mothers were on the other side of the room monitoring and watching. They couldn’t help but to keep their eyes on their children who were bringing their own child into the world. 

There was another push, another cry, another breath.

Michael peeked down but quickly moved his head away focusing back on his woman. 

The midwife leaned in closer. “Head’s crowning,” she said softly. “She’s got hair.”

He laughed, breathless and overwhelmed, brushing his thumbs across Wunmi’s cheeks. “She’s almost here, baby. You’re so close. I can see her.”

Wunmi let out a sob and pushed again. She was shaking, breath hot and loud in Michael’s ear, and he kissed her jaw as tears gathered in his own eyes.

“I’ve got you. You’re not alone. You’re so close.”

And then as if that last bit of encouragement was the gateway, Wunmi pushed with all of the energy she had left and the room filled with a new sound.

A sharp, wet cry cracked through the silence, full and high and alive.

Michael gasped as he glanced down then immediately back to Wunmi. The midwife was already guiding the baby up, wrapping her gently and helping pass her between Wunmi’s arms.

She was panting, still on her knees, arms shaking as she leaned forward.

Michael supported her back as she lowered herself into a seated position. And there, pressed to her chest, was their baby girl.

“You did it,” Michael whispered, kissing her forehead, both of them crying now. “You did it.”

Wunmi sobbed into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around their daughter, holding her like something sacred.

And Michael kept one hand on her back, the other resting protectively over the small curve of their baby’s head.

They stayed there like that, on the floor, in the middle of the room. Not caring about the mess or the monitors or who was watching.

-

The chaos of delivery, the pacing back and forth, the focused hands and the tension in the air, all of it had dissolved into quiet.

Wunmi was finally resting, eyes heavy and body fully surrendered to the bed. Her head turned slightly toward the warm spot of sunlight casting long shadows across the sheets. Her breathing had slowed. Not sleep, exactly, but that in-between space where the body finally starts to let go.

Across the room, in the reclining chair, Michael sat shirtless, his shirt tossed over the side, holding their daughter against his bare chest.

She was impossibly small.

Her head tucked beneath his chin, soft baby curls damp with birth, her little arms curled in tight as she lay bundled in the crook of his arm. His other hand rested gently across her back, holding her there like she was something too precious to fully comprehend.

And really she was.

Michael couldn’t stop staring. Not at the room, not at the monitors, not even at Wunmi right now–just the tiny, wriggling life pressed to his chest. He could feel her heartbeat fluttering under her skin, the tiniest rise and fall of breath.

“I got you, princess,” he whispered, his voice raw, lips just brushing her temple. “Daddy’s right here.”

She shifted a little, making a soft, airy sound. Michael’s eyes welled, but he blinked fast, brushing a finger across her cheek.

The nurse came in gently after a knock, her steps light, eyes warm. She glanced at the monitors, then over at Michael.

“How’s she doing?”

Michael looked up. “Perfect. She's so calm.”

Wunmi stirred slightly at the sound of their voices, groggy but alert enough to turn her head. “Everything okay?”

Michael turned, still holding the baby. “Yeah. She’s good. Just been hangin’ out with me.”

Wunmi smiled sleepily. “Of course she has.”

“She might be ready to feed soon,” the nurse said kindly, walking toward the bed. “You up for trying to latch?”

Wunmi nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

The nurse helped ease her upright, stacking pillows behind her, and adjusting the bed’s incline. Michael stood and walked over with the baby still pressed against him, his hands steady, his heart somewhere in his throat.

He looked down at Wunmi who was glowing with sweat, exhaustion, and something else entirely. She looked up at him, and for a second, they just stared.

“Ready to see your mama again?” Michael whispered to their daughter as he passed her gently to Wunmi.

The baby whimpered softly in protest at the shift, but the moment she was against Wunmi’s chest, her little head turned instinctively.

With the nurse’s help, the baby found her way, latching with a little struggle, then settling into rhythm. Wunmi winced at the sensation, then relaxed, her arm curling protectively around her daughter.

Michael sat back down at her side, eyes never leaving them. His hand reached over and brushed down Wunmi’s arm.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured.

“You say that like I didn’t almost curse you out six hours ago.”

“You did,” he laughed. 

A ray of golden sunlight broke through the window, like a spotlight from the heavens, and landed gently across the baby’s back. Her tiny lashes fluttered, her mouth relaxed, and she melted deeper into Wunmi’s chest with a long, happy sigh.

Michael noticed it first. “Look.”

Wunmi glanced down, then blinked back the emotion swelling in her chest.

“She’s glowing,” she whispered. “Like she is the light.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Soleil.”

Wunmi turned her head. “The sun.”

He nodded again, hand moving to stroke the soft curve of their daughter’s cheek. “Soleil Amira.”

“Little sun princess,” Wunmi translated under her breath, her voice trembling.

“That’s her,” Michael whispered. “That’s our girl.”

And just like that, her name was spoken into the room like a promise.

Soleil Amira Jordan.

And in that golden hush, with Wunmi holding their daughter and Michael tucked close beside her, everything made sense.

-

-

-

The night had been a world wind of emotions—good and bad—but the most prevailing one: relief. They'd been at this for a year now, and every step of the way came with its own challenges. They'd had to deal with press all over the globe. Flights. Microphones. Cameras in their faces. There had been critics who refused to see the work for what it was, critics who over and under analyzed everything, critics who wanted to see them lose. But they had come out on top—even if the outcome hadn't been what they truly deserved.

They'd won 4 out of the 16 awards they were nominated for. The most Oscar nominated movie in an almost 100 year history, and they only walked away with a quarter of what they were owed.

Ludwig had won his third Oscar for Best Score.

Autumn had won for Best Cinematography, becoming the first woman to do so.

Ryan had become the second Black filmmaker to win Best Original Screenplay.

And Michael had won Best Actor—the sixth Black man to accomplish the feat.

Sinners had become something special: a household name, a testament to hard work, and a shining example of community, love, and honor. The little family they'd built had been through trials and tribulations, but they never let it get them down. They remembered the lessons they'd learned along the way—the love they shared for each other and the project—and they allowed that to be the ruling thought in their minds. After a year, they were ecstatic yet exhausted, and two of them were ready to call an end to the charade they had kept up for far too long.

"I'm tired of lying," the man breathed as he walked through the home behind the woman, holding his hand to her waist as she moved as smoothly as her tired feet allowed her. His words were light, edged with a need that had been growing for years. "I don't want to walk into another room without you on my arm."

The home was quiet despite their shuffling and low talking. They’d decided to stay at the woman's home because it was the closest and her comfort made the most sense. At his words, she let out an exasperated laugh.

"What are you talking about," she pondered, accent fluttering his heart. Her dress shimmered with each step toward her bedroom, and the soft glare she sent his way stuttered his breathing. He was obsessed with her, had been since their very first meeting.

"I'm talking about you and me," he tried again. He held the bedroom door open for her, and as she passed him, she got a whiff of his cologne that had remained stuck to his skin all night. Through the red carpet and the ceremony and hugging people every two minutes, the scent lingered just enough for her heart to thud. "I want the world to know,” the man pressed, the secret they’d kept for ages fighting to relinquish itself. “We been ducking and dodging this for too long, baby. What are we gonna do when you give birth?"

"Michael," she sighed heavily. Her ass hit the edge of the bed as she gently eased herself down. With the weight off of her feet, she could finally think more clearly about the situation. "You’ve just won an Oscar. Shouldn't that be the one thing on your mind?"

It was peculiar to her. She’d been by his side for two years now, and she knew he’d been chasing this. He and Ryan were like a well-oiled machine. They’d spent years fine-tuning the actor/director dynamic, and finally they’d succeeded. She expected him to be happy with just that, to spend the next year on a career high. But here he was, hours after his victory and already wanting more.

"Never before you," his voice broke apart. He kneeled down in front of her, hands on the deep emerald gown. He clung to her thighs, eyes soft, Oscar forgotten on the bedside table. "No award or accolade will ever be at the front of my mind when I have you and our baby. You two are the most important things to me. Award or not, I'll always have you."

The words left his chest open, even though he’d said this before. The man never allowed a minute to go by without him showering her in love. He always affirmed her—in private conversations, over the phone, after a woman had leaned too close, while on stage when he just couldn’t help but to look her way or kiss her belly. He thrived in affirmation because he needed her to understand how serious he was about her, but now, it felt even more important.

With an Academy Award to his name, he’d been thrusted into a new realm of actor. In his heart, he still only cared for her.

"So you want the world to know that the baby I’m carrying is yours? After all this time I’ve spent dodging questions?"

The actress loved her privacy, and she knew that once she relinquished it, there was no getting it back. For months, she declined to answer questions about her baby’s paternity, name, or due date. She would laugh it off and make small comments here and there, but she never let the world in long enough to decipher what her silence meant.

"The world is gonna have to know eventually, Wunmi," he breathed, hands drifting to her feet. He pulled each shoe off slowly, watching as her body began to ease just an inch as the pressure lifted. "We’re not going to be the type of parents to show are children online or in public. You know I agree with you on that, but I want the world the know that I’m a father because even though we’ve kept things a secret for this long, I’m proud of us. I’m proud of our family."

Michael took one foot in hand, placing a thumb over that one spot that began to hurt chronically three months ago. The ache was identical on each foot, and he’d taken every second of the last few months to learn exactly what her body needed from him most. Kneading the sole of her foot, his eyes remained on her face.

"I’m proud, too," Wunmi sighed wetly, emotions rising from his declaration. Tears sparked in the corners of her eyes at how overwhelming things had been. Press. Award Season. Her loss. Michael’s win. Her overall sense of happiness. She loved him so deeply because through everything, he was always there for her. "I’m sorry if it’s felt like I’ve wanted to hide you or that I’m not happy because I am," she rushed out, words tumbling over themselves.

"I know, baby," he smiled softly.

"And there’s not a minute in the day where I don’t love you," she continued.

"You never fail to show me," he cooed, dimples prominent.

Sighing, Wunmi felt her heart swelling in her chest. She wanted the world to know that he was hers. She’d sat rows apart from Michael the entire night, eyes on the back of his head and the thickness of his neck. When she lost, he came to her side during the break to pull her close and whisper soft words into her ear. When he won, she grabbed his hand just before he ran to the stage, utterly shocked. His eyes were on her the entire speech, and as much as he’d wanted to scream his love from the rooftops right then and there, he couldn’t because she’d been holding back.

“I want it,” she whispered, wiping her tears, and the man’s eyebrows shot up. Chuckling around her wet emotions, she confirmed. “I want to tell everyone. My mom knows. Mama Donna knows. Our cast mates know. They’re all supportive, so why not tell the world?”

Michael felt like everything had finally cracked itself open.

He was half hearing the woman speak, mind elsewhere—between the present and future. He envisioned getting to talk publicly about fatherhood and how much Wunmi really meant to him. He imagined a life where they didn’t have to worry about people catching him walking in and out of her home or standing far too close to be friendly. His hands paused their worship as the smile took over his face, and the entire time he’d been locked away in his mind, the woman had been uttering his name.

“Michael,” Wunmi attempted for what felt redundant at this point. Her hands reached for his face and pulled him in close. “Baby,” she whispered, stroking her thumb along the edge of his ear. She watched his eyes flutter in recognition, and when he completely came to and was about to apologize, she took him in a passionate kiss.

She’d waited all night for this—to feel their bodies in alignment once more. Red carpets were lonely when her team urged her to get there early while he arrived on the back end. Award shows were lonely when the entire world was watching while her man was just barely close enough to touch. But they were home now, and she could be in his arms without criticism.

“I want to celebrate you,” she moaned against his full lips, her sweet, desperate tone filling the air. She bit his bottom lip, nipping at his skin and drawing a groan from his chest. “Let me celebrate you,” she pushed, dragging him impossibly closer. Her breathing was becoming erratic, flowing through her lungs quickly and without restriction. She needed him more than she had in a long time, and her pregnancy hormones weren’t making it any easier to handle.

She pulled him up from his knees off desperate strength alone, and he followed her hands’ command by laying on his back.

Expensive custom clothes and even more expensive jewelry were thrusted about the room, draped over chairs and side tables and bunched up on the floor. They had not one care in the world but each other and the love between them.

“I adore you,” Michael breathed heavily as the woman sank her knees into the bed. She moved gracefully, round belly not stopping a damn thing. The man had tried to make her take his place, but she was determined to give, to celebrate his wins in the way he deserved.

Her palms pressed him into the mattress, and when her lips wrapped around him, his eyes rolled back.

Her response to his announcement of love was felt ten-fold. In the hollowing of her cheeks. In the dragging of her nails against his skin. In the moans she allowed to surround him. She took him down her throat, and her attention stayed locked on his face the entire time. Not once did she shift her eyes. Not once did she give them agency to close.

When he looked down at her, tears filled his own, overcome with glorious emotion. He was obsessed with her, in love with her, and soon enough he’d get his opportunity to tell the world how special their relationship was. One hand holding her face, they stared into each other’s eyes as she engulfed him, love prevailing as the dominant emotion.

~~~~~

Wunmi’s team moved around the room like it was a tactical sport, fixing her hair, plastering on her makeup, ensuring her dress fit just right. Today was the last major event for a while: Vanity Fair’s Oscar Party. She was wearing a light purple gown today—lilac—with a flowing, ruffled cape. She looked gorgeous, doused in fabric that only accentuated her beauty.

She tried to sit still, but her nerves were all over the place. Last night had been a movie. She couldn’t get the night out of her head, and most importantly, she couldn’t stop thinking about how Michael had slow-stroked her with tears running down his dimpled cheeks. He’d repeated his love more times than she could count, but the sound of it still rang in her ears—his crumbling love.

Wunmi was antsy. In just an hour, everything would change. She wouldn’t just be Wunmi Mosaku, Oscar nominated actress. She’d be that and Michael B. Jordan’s other half: the person he shared a life with, the one who knew more about him than anyone else. She’d already been those things, but now it would be public knowledge.

Hand resting on her belly, she took a deep breath. She was carrying their first child, a baby she was happy to bring into this world with him at her side. She knew it was time, and it had been for a while. Sighing, the actress’s eyes drifted toward the mirror, and that’s when she saw the man’s reflection.

“Well, don’t you clean up nice,” one of the women in the room exclaimed, causing everyone else to join in with their own whistles or applause. Michael was covering up a breathy laugh, tongue running along his teeth. He was wearing a brown suit with crisp edges and dazzling buttons. His entire wardrobe this award season had been about stepping out of the box for men’s fashion, and today was especially a good look.

In her seat at the mirror, Wunmi was dragging her eyes along the length of his body, and without knowing it, he’d begun to do the same. But then her eyes landed on his hand, and she began to laugh bashfully with a hand over her mouth. Purple Calla Lilies—unconventional yet beautiful. The bouquet made her body watch to lurch in the man’s direction, but she restrained herself, eyeing him through the mirror with an expression of love and desire.

Michael’s heart thudded as he stepped further into the room that was dense with the scent of hairspray and perfume. He tuned the rest of the world out as he crossed over to his woman, and the softening look in her eyes made him heave a dreamy breath.

“Thank you,” she giggled once the flowers were in hand. She looked up at him from her seat, all starry-eyed and perfect. And when he bent down, she didn’t even hesitate. One hand went to the back of his head, pulling him in for the kiss—one soft, honest, chaste peck. But they both knew the position they’d been in hours ago, and it was anything but chaste.

Hand to the back of her neck, he remained close, wanting to engulf her but not wanting to ruin everyone’s hard word. She looked amazing, causing his words to flow without much thought.

“You’re beautiful, mama,” he breathed, pecking her lips once more.

“Thank you, baby,” she laughed, refraining from grabbing the edge of his suit jacket to pull him in. The man was irresistible—just as she was to him. She felt her heart slow into a steady song, one that only pumped through her when he made her feel this way.

“You look good enough to eat,” he groaned this time close to her ear, but everyone heard it. Wunmi’s breath hitched, eyes shut carefully, hand wrapped around his lapel. Light laughter brought up the room’s volume as the team shook their heads at the pair’s love, and the actress’s stylist had to step in to return the room to decency.

“Are the lovebirds arriving together today,” to woman raised her eyebrows. She’d worked with Wunmi long enough to sense the unusual nerves, and uncharacteristically, Michael had been getting ready in the woman’s home as well—just a few doors down. Early on, they hadn’t been successful in hiding their love from the team, so they had become like a safe haven for the pair. Somewhere they could exist in peace. Somewhere they didn’t have to put up a front. Seeing them both now, they could all tell that something was different besides the man’s recent award win.

Giving Wunmi’s hand a squeeze, he began to move away, knowing they had work to complete if they were going to make it on time. He kissed her temple and watched her eyes flutter open. Playful annoyance stared back at him as he had caused her body to hum delightfully beneath layers of fabric that wouldn’t get its chance to meet the floor for several hours.

“Yes, we are,” the actor’s voice confirmed while watching the woman. His tone was full of the confidence a younger version of himself had only wished to possess one day. He felt himself stepping into a role he’d wanted to play for so long: Father; and Husband, if she allowed. He felt a strength, and with her at his side, he felt unstoppable, safe, happy. His only hope was that she felt that to.

When the SUV rolled to a slow stop, the woman’s nerves were no where to be found. The decision had been made, and there was no backing out now. At least she could feel comforted by the fact that Michael was at her side—ready to take in whatever the day brought. The man squeezed her hand as a reminder that they were in this together, but she didn’t need it. The smile took over her face.

“I’m ready,” she breathed softly, heart and mind satisfied and settled.

Michael felt her contemplative ease. The entire ride he’d been thinking about how their relationship had developed, flourishing on set as they played characters who taught them so much about themselves. They’d found love between the pages of script and layers of two fictional characters’ love, but they had expounded on it and made it theirs.

Smoke and Annie were like a beautiful reminder to them now that they’d always have something strong at the core of their relationship; And today was going to be one of the last times they got to spend with the two lingering about in conversations.

The door to the SUV opened on the man’s side, and already, paparazzi were swarming. He moved quick, stepping out of the vehicle and sending a charming wave toward the cameras and fans. But they weren’t the first thing in his mind right now—they couldn’t possibly be. Turning back, he placed his hand out for the woman to grab ahold to, and when she stepped out, the camera shutters went crazy.

His woman was the star of the show—glittering in purple and diamonds—and he was glad that everyone had recognized that, that he was at her side.

Arm around her lower back, they moved toward the carpet, ready to make their debut as a couple.

Around them, cameras flashed, questions rang.

Wunmi! Michael! Are you two an item?

Is this the secret you’ve been keeping, Wunmi?

Is there a ring?

People were screaming what they wanted to know from the rooftops, but the pair had tuned everyone out. Every few seconds, Michael’s eyes would drift over to admire the woman, becoming transfixed by her beauty. Wunmi could feel his eyes on her, how he would admire her hair before honing in on her lips. And at the same time, his hand stroked her lower back to keep her steady, but he was just crumbling her resolve. She wanted to be at home with him, cuddled up instead of being overstimulated by lights and sound.

She didn’t take anything for granted, however. She loved this part: allowing the world to see just an inch into her personal life.

Turning her head as they stopped on a mark, she met his eyes smoothly, smiling up at him, pulling him closer. Time seemed to stop as they forgot where they were. The only people in the world right now were the two of them and their baby. Michael felt something rising in his body, a need he’d suppressed too often for the last year in the public eye. Not wanting to hold back his emotions any longer, he brought one hand up to cradle her belly as he leaned in and placed a kiss to her forehead.

WUNMI! MICHAEL!

Is that your baby, Mike?!

How long have you guys been a thing?!

The questions only got more frequent and persistent as they moved throughout the carpet. Everyone’s eyes were on them—paparazzi, staff, other celebrities. No one had a clue that they’d been together for as long as they had, and it made them feel successful in their attempts to conceal their relationship. But things were out in the open now, getting it’s time in the spotlight.

Wunmi was truly happy about not having to lie any more. She had hated being unable to tell the world who her baby’s father was, but she’d pushed the emotions down so far that she tricked herself into believing there was no other way. Joyful tears rising in her eyes, she smiled for the cameras, capturing her realization in time.

Soon it was time for them to take their pictures individually. The actor hadn’t been ready to pull away just yet. In his mind, he didn’t need not one picture alone, but he knew she deserved that moment for herself. Walking the actress to her mark, he continued to wear his heart on his sleeve; And the cameras caught the moment perfectly: one of his hands on her belly, one of hers on his cheek, smiles on their faces, foreheads touching lightly.

Wunmi’s eyes dazzled in the man’s presence, and Michael’s demeanor had shifted in a seriousness many hadn’t expected. Their love for each other was clear without any added explanation.

They were perfect in every way, and the entire world was now seeing just that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: ~3,600

a/n: i wrote this QUICK

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

She hadn't cried, but she'd gotten close.

Michael had shown up at her door in a black tuxedo at 7:15 — fifteen minutes early, which she hadn't known about him then, but would learn was just who he was — with a burgundy boutonnière that matched her dress like he'd planned it, which he had. His mother had called her mother to confirm the color two weeks prior. He had deep dimples and the particular straightness of a young man who'd been told by someone important to him to carry himself with respect and had taken the note seriously. He'd seen her in the doorway and his whole face had gone still for a moment.

"Naomi." He'd said her name like it was a complete sentence.

She'd rolled her eyes and stepped outside, but she'd been smiling.

The gym had been decorated with enormous effort and a budget that couldn't quite close the gap between vision and reality. Streamers. A disco ball that actually worked. Somebody's uncle DJing, playing a mix that went from Usher to Kanye to something slow and ache-y that cleared the floor of anyone not brave enough to hold someone close.

Michael had been brave enough.

He'd found her at the punch table — she'd been standing with her girl Keisha and her girl Tanya and she'd seen him moving through the crowd from across the room, that easy unhurried way he had, and something in her chest had done a thing she'd been trying to ignore since September.

He'd offered his hand.

"Dance with me."

Not a question.

She'd looked at Keisha. Keisha had looked at Tanya. Tanya had made a face that communicated girl, if you don't—

She took his hand.

He held her the right way. Not too far, not too close — that particular distance of someone who understood where the line was and also understood that being respectful didn't mean being stiff. His hand was warm on her waist. They moved slow to something she couldn't name anymore, just the feeling of it — the gym loud and dim around them, the disco ball throwing light across everyone's faces, and Michael's jaw close to her temple and his cologne something she'd been aware of since he picked her up but was trying not to think about directly.

"You good?" he'd asked, quiet.

"Yeah." She'd been very good. "You?"

"Better now." Simple. No performance of smoothness. Just the truth, delivered straight.

She'd looked up at him. He'd looked back. The disco ball moved. Someone across the room shouted something. Neither of them moved their eyes.

"Mike," she'd said.

"Naomi."

"Don't do something stupid tonight."

A slow smile. The dimple appearing like punctuation. "I ain't gonna do nothing stupid."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He'd turned them slightly, so they were moving in a slow circle. "I been thinking about this for a while."

"Thinking about what."

"Tonight. You." A pause. "Us."

Naomi had exhaled through her nose. Looked at the lapel of his jacket instead of his face. "We've been friends since middle school."

"I know."

"You're graduating in a month."

"I know that too."

He'd tilted his head until she had to look at him. "None of that changes what I'm saying."

She'd held his gaze for a moment that felt long. Longer than it probably was. The music continued. The disco ball moved.

"Ask me then," she'd said.

He'd smiled — full, warm, those dimples doing their full damage — and said: "Naomi Calloway. Will you be my girl?"

She'd pressed her lips together, looked at him.

"Yeah," she'd said. "Okay."

********************************************************************

He'd gotten a hotel room.

She'd known he would. He wasn't the kind of person who did things halfway, and the fact that he'd done it with a quiet, non-pushy thing — had mentioned it once, early in the week before prom, when they'd been walking home from school and he'd said I got a room at the Marriott if you want some space away from the afterparty crowd, the way he'd said it folded inside the practical, more about comfort than what it was also about — had made her feel safe enough to say yes. And then feel the specific private weight of that yes for five days until the night arrived.

She'd told her mother she was sleeping at Keisha's. Her mother had looked at her for a long moment from across the kitchen, the kind of maternal look that was reading everything without needing to say any of it, and then had nodded and said be safe, call me if anything happens, and the anything had held a whole universe in it.

The room was simple. King bed, generic art, the particular smell of hotel sheets laundered in something industrial that still managed to feel clean and anonymous in the specific way of hotel rooms everywhere. He'd ordered room service — wings, french fries, sodas — food that arrived at eleven-thirty when neither of them had eaten much at the actual dinner, too keyed up for real appetite. The TV was on. Some movie they'd both seen that required no attention. The shoes were off.

She'd been sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed still in her prom dress and he'd been beside her talking — he was always talking when he was comfortable, she'd learned, his voice finding its natural velocity when he wasn't performing for anyone — about All My Children. About the role. About whether he was going to stay with it through graduation or leave for something new, something that required more. He was eighteen and already thinking about five years ahead the way a thirty-five-year-old would, and she'd been half-listening and half just watching the way he talked, the way his hands moved when he was into something, the way he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor while he thought.

"You're not listening," he'd said.

"I'm listening."

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're looking at me but you're somewhere else." He'd turned to face her. And there it was — the full attention, the eyes finding hers and staying. "What are you thinking about?"

You, she'd thought, but she didn't answer. She'd kissed him instead.

Not because he'd pushed. Not because she felt like she owed it to the evening or the dress or the room. Because she wanted to. Because she'd been thinking about it for months, maybe longer, and it was prom night and he'd matched the boutonnière to her dress and she was sixteen and she was sure.

He'd been still for half a second — surprised, which had surprised her in return, because surely he'd known — and then he'd kissed her back. Careful and slow. Not reaching for anything beyond what she was offering. He'd pulled back after a moment and looked at her.

"Naomi."

"Don't."

"I'm just—"

"I know what you're going to say." She'd held his gaze. "And the answer is yes. I want to."

A pause. Something in his expression had shifted — not surprise anymore, just the specific weight of something mattering. "You sure?"

"Michael." She'd almost smiled. "I've been sure since February. You're the one who took four months."

He'd laughed at that — startled, real, the dimple — and then he'd reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear with one hand, slow and deliberate, and the laugh had settled into something quieter.

"Okay," he'd said.

It had been what first times always were. The logistics imperfect, the moment occasionally fumbled, the world briefly overwhelming and then — not. The two of them working out the map of something new with the specific care of people who already trusted each other before they got there. He'd asked once more if she was okay and she'd said yes, I'm okay, I promise and he'd believed her.

She'd fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder at some point near two.

He'd been awake a long time after, she'd realized later. She'd surfaced once, drowsy, and found him still awake in the dark with his arm around her. Just there, holding the room around her like that was something he'd been practicing his whole life — or maybe like it was something he'd just discovered he was good at.

She'd gone back to sleep.

*********************************************************

They'd lasted four months.

No drama. No betrayal. No cruelty of any kind. Just a boy with a future he was already running toward and a girl who was smart enough to know she needed to build her own, and a conversation at a diner in August before he left for LA that was honest and sad and loving in equal measure. He'd ordered coffee he didn't drink much of and she'd ordered pancakes she mostly moved around her plate and they'd sat in a booth in Newark and said all the true things without saying any of the cruel ones.

"I don't want this to be the last time we talk," he'd said.

"It won't be," she'd told him. Sure of it.

"How do you know?"

She'd looked at him across the syrup and the coffee. "Because I know you," she'd said. "And I know me. And whatever this is, it's not the last thing."

He'd nodded slowly and reached across the table. His hand covering hers in the middle of the booth.

They'd stayed that way for a while.

Then he'd gone to Los Angeles and she'd gone back to school and they'd called and then eventually social-media'd and then real-phone-called when life got big enough to require them, and twenty years had passed that contained, within them, all the versions of two people becoming themselves.

When Fruitvale Station came out in 2013, she'd watched it twice in the theater and called him from the parking lot and said, voice cracking slightly: You're going to win something one day. I need you to know I called it. He'd laughed and said, I'ma hold you to that. When she'd opened Soulrise in 2021 he'd called her the night of the first retreat — she'd been exhausted, exhilarated, sitting on the Catskills porch at midnight — and said, Tell me everything. She'd talked for an hour. He'd listened to every word.

Somewhere in those three years after Soulrise began — she'd never been able to name the exact moment, which she thought was probably right — the friendship had started tilting slowly. The way light shifted in a room you'd been in long enough that you stopped noticing how it changed until suddenly it was different and warm and you understood it had been changing for a while.

He'd asked her once: When did you know?

She'd thought about it honestly. I knew when you started asking about Soulrise first, she'd said. Before anything about you. Every time you called. You asked about the business, the retreats, the women. And I realized I was waiting for you to ask.

He'd been quiet for a moment. That's when I knew too, he'd said. When I started calling just to hear what you were building.

Six months later, he'd asked her something different. In her WeHo apartment, on the couch, just him and her and the question that had been building for three years was settling into the room between them.

She'd said yes before he'd finished the sentence.

He'd said: I knew.

I know you knew, she'd said, and kissed him.

Santa Clarita, March 15, 2026

The house was its own controlled chaos. His Santa Clarita home had a specific quality of lived-in elegance: the anime on the shelves alongside the art books, the sneakers organized in a way that indicated a system, the kitchen that showed evidence of someone who actually used it. It felt like the home of someone who took their private life seriously, which was exactly what it was.

Naomi was in the master bathroom with her glam team — Jade for makeup, Kierra for the final touches on the hair she'd mostly done herself the night before — and a half-eaten plate of fruit she kept forgetting about, three dresses hanging on the back of the door even though she'd already decided, and the sound of Donna Jordan asking something from the next room in a voice that carried like it always had, through walls and decades equally.

"Naomi, baby, did you find the good flat iron?"

"In the overnight bag, Ms. Donna. The black one."

A pause. Then the sound of a bag being unzipped. Then: "Got it. Thank you, sweetheart."

Naomi met her own eyes in the mirror and exhaled.

This was the thing about Donna Jordan: she made you feel like home even when home was technically someone else's house. She'd been doing it since Naomi was sixteen and nervously eating dinner at the Jordan family table in Newark, trying not to look at Michael too much. Donna had a warmth that wasn't performed — it was structural, the thing the whole family was built on — and she also had the quiet, sharp quality of a woman who saw things. A teacher's eyes. The kind that noticed everything without appearing to look.

Her makeup artist Jade was doing the most precise liner work known to humankind on Naomi's right eye. Naomi's hair was already done — her own natural hair, blown out and shaped into soft, full curls that she'd worked on herself last night with the same focus she gave her biggest retreat prep.

"Hold still," Jade murmured.

"I am holding still."

"You keep swallowing."

"I'm nervous."

Jade pulled back and looked at her with the particular expression of someone who had been doing celebrity faces for six years and did not have a lot of patience for movement but genuinely cared about the people she was moving. "You've been to a million events."

"Not like this one."

Jade's expression did a small thing — softening, recalibrating. She knew. She had full context. She'd been in the group chat when the engagement happened, had sent approximately seventeen exclamation points and a voice note that lasted four minutes and was mostly screaming. "You nervous nervous, or happy nervous?"

Naomi thought about it honestly. "Both. Like my chest is doing the thing. But it's not the bad kind."

"That's just love, boo." Back to the liner. "Hold still and let me make you the most beautiful woman on that carpet."

"Ms. Donna is also going to be on that carpet."

"The second most beautiful woman." Jade did not look up. "Hold still."

The Soulrise Retreats website, at that particular moment, had four upcoming retreats listed: Tulum in April, Sedona in June, Tuscany in September, Cape Town in November. Each one limited to eighteen women. Each one booked out. The Instagram had 340,000 followers and the inquiry inbox had a six-month wait list. What had started as a single weekend retreat in the Catskills in 2021 with nine women and a rented house and Naomi doing literally everything herself — the logistics, the yoga instruction, the cooking, the emotional facilitation, the 2am texts when someone was having a breakthrough that looked like a breakdown — had become, three years later, something real. Something that mattered to women in a way that you could feel in their testimonials and their return visits and the fact that three of her original nine Catskills women had been back for at least four retreats each.

Soulrise Retreats. The name had come to her at 3am on the floor of that rented Catskills house, cross-legged in the dark, listening to the breathing of women she'd known for approximately forty-eight hours and already felt responsible for. The sun rises even in the places that have forgotten it. You come to the retreat and you soulrise. You remember that the light was always inside you.

She'd called Michael at 3am to tell him.

He'd picked up on the second ring. Which was just Michael — asleep at three, answering on the second ring. Always, Naomi. What's up. She'd told him about the name and there'd been a pause and then he'd said, quiet: That's exactly right. That's exactly it. And she'd known he meant it because he wasn't a person who performed enthusiasm. When he said something was good, it was good.

That had been 2021. Way before the friendship had started its slow, gentle, undeniable tilt toward something else.

Donna came into the bathroom doorway at three-thirty, her own hair pinned while product set, wearing a robe. She watched Jade work for a moment without speaking.

"Can I come in?"

"Always," Naomi said.

Donna settled on the small bench near the window. She had that quality of stillness that Michael had too — the settled attention, the full presence that didn't feel like performance. She'd raised children and counseled teenagers and held the emotional architecture of a family whose son had become, gradually and then all at once, one of the most visible men in the world, and none of it had made her smaller.

"How you feeling?"

"Good. Nervous."

"About the cameras or about them knowing?"

The precision of the question. Naomi looked at her in the mirror. "Both," she admitted. "We've kept it private for so long. Not secret — private. It's been ours. And once it's out there I know it's still ours but it'll feel different."

Donna nodded slowly. "It is different," she said. "But different doesn't mean less. It means more people are in on something that was already real." A pause. "The world knowing about your ring doesn't change what Michael feels. It just means you don't have to hide it anymore." She looked at Naomi clearly. "Which is different from protecting it."

Naomi absorbed that.

"He's nervous too," Donna offered, and her mouth curved into the specific smile of a mother who knew her child completely. "In case that helps."

"Michael is never nervous."

"Michael is almost always nervous. He hides it under the stillness. He's been up since six. Gym first — couldn't sleep — and then he made breakfast for his father, and then he stood in his closet for forty-five minutes. His father finally went in and told him the tux was fine and he was embarrassing himself."

Naomi pressed her lips together against a smile.

"Ms. Donna—"

"You're going to be great," Donna said. Simple and sure, the way she said all things. "The cameras are going to love you because you're already who you are. You don't need them to tell you anything." She rose from the bench, smoothed her robe, paused in the doorway.

"And Naomi. For the record." Her voice had shifted — quieter, more direct. "I've been waiting for this for a very long time. Not the Oscars, not the cameras. This. The two of you." She held her gaze. "That boy has been in love with you since he was eighteen years old. He just needed to become the person he needed to be first. And you needed to build the thing you built first." A small smile. "The rest of us have just been patient."

She left.

The bathroom was quiet except for Jade's brush.

"Oh, shit," Naomi said softly.

"Mm-hm," said Jade. "Left eye. Hold still."

She'd chosen a gown the color of midnight.

Not black — technically, officially, not quite black. The kind of deep navy-black that shifted in the light, that photographed as one thing and looked like another, that had a quality of depth to it the way still water had depth. Custom. A structured bodice, an open back that was exactly as much as it needed to be, a skirt that moved when she moved, weighted in silk. She wore her grandmother's gold earrings — the long ones, drop style, barely-there weight against her neck — and a bracelet on her right wrist, a thin chain, and nothing on her left except the ring that was private and hers until tonight.

She stood in the full-length mirror in the bedroom — the room she and Michael shared in the Santa Clarita house, though she still had her own apartment in WeHo that functioned more as an office for Soulrise Retreats these days than a place she slept — and she looked at herself the way she'd looked at herself in that Newark bedroom in 2004.

Thirty-seven. Brown skin. Hair in big soft curls that was now pinned in an updo. Jade's liner making her eyes sharp and deep. Her grandmother's earrings. The ring catching the afternoon light.

She was, she realized with a fullness in her throat, not the same girl.

She was something more.

The door opened without a knock, and Michael stood in the doorway.

Tuxedo. Custom, fitted. Black jacket, no tie — open collar, intentional. His father had won the argument about the tux but the collar was Michael's ground to hold. He wore his David Yurman pieces quietly — the ring, the bracelet, just enough — and he'd gotten his lineup fresh that morning, which she could tell because there was a particular clarity to his edges on days he'd been to the barber. He was thirty-nine years old and he was, she thought with the specific helplessness of someone who'd been in love with a person long enough to know exactly what they were looking at, beautiful.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then he said, "Naomi."

The same way he'd said it in her doorway in Newark in 2004. Full sentence. Nothing else needed.

"Hi," she said.

He crossed the room and stood in front of her and took her face in both hands, careful not to disturb the makeup, and pressed his forehead to hers. Same thing he'd done at prom. Same geometry of affection. Some things didn't change. Some things shouldn't.

"You ready for this?" he asked, low. Just for her.

"Ask me again in an hour."

A breath of a laugh against her temple. "It's gonna be good. I promise."

"How do you know?"

He pulled back enough to look at her steadily, certain in that Michael B. Jordan way that wasn't arrogance but was something adjacent — the certainty of someone who had decided something and meant it.

"Because you're with me," he said. "And I don't do things halfway."

She'd known that since she was sixteen.

The car arrived at the Dolby Theatre at five-eleven.

Naomi had done the carpet before. Not this carpet, not at this level — but she'd attended events through Soulrise, had been a plus one to industry things over the years, had navigated crowds and cameras and the particular controlled madness of public moments. She'd been to the Essence Black Women in Hollywood luncheon. She'd been at the NAACP Image Awards. She'd moved through red carpets at a respectful remove from the center of things. She thought that had prepared her.

It had not fully prepared her for this.

The sound hit first. The collective roar of a crowd that had been standing behind barriers for hours and was operating on pure enthusiasm and the specific energy of people who had genuine investment in the night — not fans performing fandom but people who cared, whose joy for this was connected to something real in their own lives. Then the light. Camera flashes were not one thing but thousands of things, an assault of brightness that arrived from every direction simultaneously and turned the world white for a disorienting half-second. She understood suddenly why celebrities wore sunglasses on red carpets that didn't have any practical relationship to the weather. It was a survival mechanism.

Then the carpet itself. That red expanse that felt, standing at the edge of it, longer than it looked on television. Photographers stacked six deep on either side, publicists moving people through the choreography of it with the efficiency of air traffic controllers, journalists with microphones stationed at intervals. The whole machinery of the moment, organized and relentless.

Donna went first, walking with Michael's father and Khalid and Jamila — the family entering together, which was exactly the kind of choice that was simultaneously practical and deeply intentional, because everything about Michael's relationship with his family was both. Naomi watched them from just inside the arrival area, staying put, feeling her heart doing something she couldn't entirely regulate.

She'd thought about this part of the night the most, actually. More than the gown. More than the makeup. She'd thought about this specific moment — the choice of walking out — and what it meant. Not because she was afraid of it but because she respected what it was. She and Michael had kept this private not out of shame or secrecy but out of a genuine belief that some things needed to live in your own hands before they lived in the world. The ring on her left hand had been on her left hand for six months in restaurants and airports and her own home and his home and Soulrise retreats in three countries. She knew what it felt like to wear it. She'd been wearing it for herself.

Tonight it was going to mean something different.

She thought about what Donna had said. The world knowing doesn't change what you have. It just means you're not hiding it anymore.

She'd built Soulrise by believing that women deserved to be seen in the fullness of who they were. That wholeness was not a private luxury but a right. That you could hold something sacred and still let people see it. She'd preached that in circles in Bali and Tulum and Tuscany and Sedona.

Time to live it.

Michael stepped out first.

She watched him from the interior — watched his chest rise and fall once as he took in the carpet, the crowd, the full weight of the night. Then he straightened and turned back.

Offered his hand.

She took it.

They stepped out together.

The cameras found her immediately. She felt it — not the flashes, which were constant and everywhere, but the particular quality of attention that shifted when photographers were actively working out what they were seeing. The calculation. Who is she? Where did she come from? What is this?

Michael was steady. He moved through the carpet the way he moved through everything — unhurried, intentional, holding her hand with the specific quality of his attention that she'd been cataloguing since prom. Not tight, not loose. Present. The particular grip of someone who was very sure they were where they were supposed to be.

She smiled. Not performed — she'd gotten good at distinguishing the two. She let her face do the thing it did when something was genuinely good, when she was genuinely standing in it, and the cameras got all of that. Jade's liner held. The deep navy of the gown moved exactly right. Her grandmother's earrings caught the light. She stood up straight in the fullness of herself — the woman who'd driven nine hours to lead a retreat in the Catskills in 2021 and the woman who'd spent two decades building a friendship into a love story and the woman in the fifty-thousand-dollar gown on the most photographed carpet in the world — and let all of it be true at once.

A photographer called out: "Michael! Over here!"

Then another: "Who is she? What's her name?"

Then a third, louder: "Michael! She your girlfriend?"

Michael looked at him, let a beat pass. Just long enough.

Then, with the half-smile that meant he was choosing his words and had already chosen: "That's my fiancée."

The carpet changed.

She felt it — the wave of it, the rapid chain of recognition moving through every person with a camera or a microphone or a phone. The sound shifted. Multiple conversations starting simultaneously. She heard someone say fiancée in the way people repeated words when they needed a second pass to believe them. She heard the click and buzz of a hundred cameras recalibrating, new target acquired, looking for the ring.

Looking for her left hand.

She let them find it.

Michael's hand tightened on hers — not anxiety, she knew the difference. The pleasure of having said a true thing in public after six months of keeping it private. The particular relief of the door finally open.

She turned to look at him.

He was already looking at her.

"Couldn't wait," she said, low enough that only he heard.

"Told you I don't do things halfway."

She shook her head and turned back to the cameras with the smile she wasn't performing.

The cameras, she would read later, loved that moment. The turn back. The head-shake. The smile that arrived naturally. Someone on Twitter would caption the screenshot: she didn't even know she was doing it and that's the whole thing.

She hadn't known, but that was what happened when something was real. You didn't have to perform it. It just showed.

Best Actor in a Leading Role was the ninth award of the night.

Naomi knew this because she'd looked it up. She'd done research — the order of categories, the running time, the fact that Best Actor typically came toward the end of the ceremony before Best Picture. She'd known this going in and had still spent the preceding two hours in a state of low-grade emotional electricity that she suspected was visible to anyone sitting near her and absolutely visible to Donna, who kept squeezing her hand at intervals the way a person squeezes a hand when they know exactly what's underneath someone else's composure.

Donna was on Michael's left. Naomi was on his right. His father was beside Donna — he'd flown in from Ghana specifically for tonight, a fact that Michael had mentioned once with a particular quietness that communicated how much it meant. His brother Khalid. His sister Jamila. The whole family in a row at the Dolby Theatre, the way families gathered for things that were irreversible and beautiful.

The ceremony had been extraordinary before they even got to his category. Ryan had won Best Original Screenplay earlier in the night and given a speech that had ended with him talking to his children in the audience, and Naomi had watched Michael sit through that with his jaw tight and his eyes bright and his hand in his lap in a fist he'd loosened slowly over the following five minutes. These two men had been making things together for thirteen years. The weight of that was not something you could fake.

The other nominees were announced. She'd seen all the performances. She'd sat through the category with the specific tension of someone who was trying to be objective and couldn't quite manage it.

She still wanted him to win with a thoroughness she felt in her spine.

"And the Oscar goes to—"

The pause.

Naomi had read later — in the coverage, in the recaps, in the live blog she'd gone back to read at 3am because she'd needed to experience it from the outside — that the room had pulled in a collective breath at this moment. Five thousand people simultaneously holding air.

She hadn't noticed the room at that moment. She'd been watching Michael.

He was very still. His hands on his knees. His jaw set. Looking at the stage with that focused, calm quality of his that she recognized now as the face he made when something mattered more than he had words for.

"Michael B. Jordan. Sinners."

She had seen, later, the footage of DiCaprio getting to his feet immediately — immediately, before the sentence was fully out, before the room had processed — and it said something about DiCaprio that she'd thought about. But at the moment she was not watching DiCaprio. She was watching Michael sit very still for half a second that felt longer, the way you sat when something arrived that you'd been carrying toward for your entire adult life and suddenly it was real and your body needed a moment to catch up.

Then Donna grabbed his hand.

He turned to his mother and his face broke open — not apart, open, the way a window opens and lets in more air than you expected — and he leaned down and kissed her cheek and she could see from here that he was saying something, his mouth moving, private, just for Donna. His father was on his feet. Khalid was on his feet. The room was standing.

Michael stood up.

He turned to Naomi.

He looked at her for a moment — just a moment, just the space of a breath — and what was in his face wasn't triumph, exactly. It was something quieter. The specific weight of something you've worked your whole life toward finally landing in your hands and you turning first to the person who knows what it cost.

He cupped her face in both hands. His thumbs at her jaw. Pressed his lips to her forehead and held them there for a second — a second, right there in the fifth row of the Dolby Theatre, with the whole world watching and neither of them caring — and then he was releasing her and moving toward the stage and the room was still roaring.

She sat down.

She put her hand over her mouth.

Donna's hand found hers, and she squeezed back.

He stood at the podium and he looked out at the room and he was quiet for a moment that the cameras caught and that the internet would screenshot and caption approximately four thousand times in the following seventy-two hours. Not hesitation — it never was with Michael. Attention. He was taking it in, letting the fact of it be true before he spoke about it.

"God is good." He said it simply. Then again: "God is good."

He found his mother in the crowd. "Yo, momma, what's up?" The audience laughed — warm, affectionate, the laugh of a room that had been rooting for this man. "My momma and my father's here. Hey Pops, where you at? My dad came in from Ghana." A beat. "My brother and sister. My family."

To Ryan Coogler: "You're an amazing, amazing person. I'm so honored to call you a collaborator and a friend. You gave me the opportunity and space for me to be seen. I love you too, bro. Love you to death."

The cast. Wunmi Mosaku. Hailee Steinfeld. Warner Brothers.

And then the shift — his voice finding a different register, the formal thank-yous making room for something heavier:

"I stand here because of the people that came before me. Sidney Poitier. Denzel Washington. Halle Berry. Jamie Foxx. Forest Whitaker. Will Smith. To be amongst those giants, amongst those greats, amongst my ancestors, amongst my gods—"

His voice wavered.

Just slightly. Just the human truth of it surfacing for a moment before he held it.

"Thank you everybody in this room and everybody at home for supporting me over my career. I feel it. I know you guys want me to do well, and I want to do that because you guys bet on me. Thank you for keeping betting on me. I'm gonna keep stepping up. I'm gonna keep being the best version of myself I can be."

Another pause. Different from the first one.

"And one more person." Quieter. The room leaning in. "There is a woman in the front row of this room who has known me since I was eighteen years old and who has believed in me longer than I deserve. Who built her own empire while I was building mine and never made me feel like I had to choose between them. Naomi Elise Calloway — soon to be Jordan — I love you. That's all."

The room went places.

Naomi was crying before the sentence was finished. Not the polite kind, not the one-tear photogenic kind. Actually crying, Jade's liner holding up (she would text Jade about this specifically at 1am and Jade would respond I TOLD YOU WATERPROOF). Donna had her arm around her and Donna was also crying and his father was on his feet clapping with his whole body.

The cameras found the ring.

The internet found the ring.

The Soulrise Retreats Instagram gained twelve thousand followers in the next four hours.

She didn't know any of that yet.

She just sat in the front row of the Dolby Theatre with Donna Jordan's arm around her and the full weight of being known — publicly, completely, by the man she'd loved in various ways since she was sixteen — pressing warm and real against her chest.

She'd called it in 2013.

You're going to win something one day and I need you to know I called it.

He'd said: I'ma hold you to that.

He had. He always did.

By the time they arrived at Chateau Marmont, the night had taken on the particular quality of a dream that was also just life — the kind of night where everything was too much and exactly right at the same time. The adrenaline of the ceremony had metabolized into something warmer and calmer.

Naomi had changed at the Governors Ball. Not dramatically — she'd removed the gown and put on what she thought of as her second look: a deep gold slip dress that stopped above the knee, strappy heels, the hair still in its curls, the earrings still her grandmother's, the ring that the whole internet had been posting about for the past three hours now officially, unambiguously, publicly hers. She'd seen the notifications stacking on her phone and handed it to Michael's assistant and said hold this until I'm ready to look at it and he'd taken it with the understanding of someone who'd been in the business long enough to know what that meant.

Michael still had the Oscar. He'd carried it through the Governors Ball, through the stop to get it engraved, through the car ride to Chateau Marmont, with the ease of someone who'd already made peace with the fact that this was real. She'd watched him hold it and talk to people and pose for photos and the whole time there'd been something quietly luminous about him — not the performance of winning, the actual fact of it settled into his body. He'd earned this. He knew he'd earned it. There was a specific kind of peace in knowing.

Chateau Marmont at midnight during the Gold Party was what it always was: the most exclusive room in a city full of exclusive rooms, the one where the energy was different because everyone who'd been invited had been invited on purpose. Jay-Z's Ace of Spades at every surface. A no-phone interior that created, paradoxically, a looseness — people more themselves when they weren't being performed at. The guest list was its own kind of architecture: Ryan and Zinzi already there when they arrived, Chlöe and Ryan Destiny in gold by the photo booth, Teyana somewhere near the back with La La, Kelly Rowland, Winnie Harlow. The winners and the people who loved them and the people who loved the culture that made both possible.

Ryan found Michael within two minutes and they embraced the way they'd been embracing all night and all award season — the long, specific embrace of two men who had made something together that they were both still processing the size of. Zinzi caught Naomi's eye over Ryan's shoulder and made a face that communicated this is crazy and beautiful and I'm so happy for you in approximately half a second, which was the efficiency of a woman who'd known Naomi long enough to have whole conversations in expressions.

"Soulrise," Zinzi said, when they'd gotten to each other. "You know your inbox has—"

"I've given my phone to a professional to manage until tomorrow."

"Smart." Zinzi squeezed her hands. "You looked incredible on that carpet."

"Michael made me do it."

"You let Michael do it, which is different." Zinzi's eyes were warm. "You could have had a different ring on a different finger and nobody would have clocked it."

Naomi thought about that. "Yeah," she said. "I could have."

"But you wore it where he put it."

"I wore it where he put it," she agreed.

Zinzi hugged her properly. "Welcome to the family," she said, quiet. "Officially."

Beyoncé found Michael twenty minutes in, which Naomi watched from a comfortable distance because it was genuinely something to see — the specific warmth of the Knowles-Carter when they encountered people they actually respected, which was different from the warmth they performed for rooms. They spoke for five minutes that looked like a conversation rather than a moment.

Then Beyoncé turned to Naomi.

She was not unready for this. She was not a woman who became undone by proximity to extraordinary women — she'd built Soulrise by believing in the extraordinary in ordinary women and she'd spent years learning what it meant to hold your ground with grace. But Beyoncé had a presence that functioned on its own axis, and Naomi gave herself one private moment to register that before she met her eyes and smiled.

"I know about Soulrise," Beyoncé said. "That retreat you did in Bali last September — three of my girls went. They came back different."

Naomi felt something settle in her that had been slightly unsettled for most of the night. Not nervous now. Not performing. Just herself.

"That one was special," Naomi said. "Twelve women. We spent four days at a compound outside Ubud and barely came inside."

"What do you do with them? Like what's the structure?"

"Yoga in the morning. Not the Instagram kind — the kind that goes somewhere. Group circles. Movement. A lot of sitting in the discomfort of what they've been carrying. And eating really good food in beautiful places, which is not nothing."

Beyoncé smiled. "It's not nothing at all." Then she leaned closer to Naomi. "I want to talk to you," she said. "About possibly doing something. For women in a specific kind of transition."

Naomi had built Soulrise retreat by retreat, conversation by conversation, belief by belief. She was not a person who was swept up by scale. But she looked at this woman in the private room of this party on the biggest night of her fiancé's life and thought about the forty-three women from last year and imagined what it meant to reach more of them and felt something open in her chest that was not anxiety.

"I'd really love that," she said.

They exchanged numbers like human beings.

Naomi found Michael twenty minutes later near the back of the room with Jay-Z and Ryan, all three of them in the mid-conversation sprawl of people who'd been in rooms together long enough to be easy. He spotted her, broke off, moved to meet her, slipped his hand to the small of her back where it had been all night, the warm proprietary ease of it.

"What happened?" he said. Reading her face. He always read her face.

"Beyoncé wants to do something with Soulrise."

He looked at her for a moment.

"I told you," he said.

"You didn't tell me that specifically."

"I told you that real people know real work." He pulled her slightly toward him. "Same thing."

She pressed her face briefly into his shoulder and felt his arm come around her fully.

Around them the Gold Party continued — music, Ace of Spades, the room full of people who'd earned their places here. She could hear Teyana laughing somewhere. She could hear Jay-Z making a point with the conviction of a man who always made points with conviction. She could feel the Oscar in Michael's other hand, the weight of it tangible even from here.

This was the life.

All of it at once. The work and the love and the friends and the music and the room and the man whose arm was around her and the ring on her finger and the inbox full of women who needed what she'd built and the future she was going to walk into with both hands open.

First, then forever, she thought.

Yeah.

Exactly that.

It was Michael's idea.

Of course it was.

They'd said their goodbyes at Chateau Marmont somewhere around one in the morning, made their way through the parking logistics with his security, and she'd thought they were heading home. Then the car had turned in a different direction and she'd looked at him.

"Where are we going?"

He'd held up one finger. "Trust me."

The In-N-Out on Sunset was — she didn't have a better word for it — extraordinary. Not the building, which was an In-N-Out, not the hour, though the hour added something. What was extraordinary was the moment when they walked in — the Best Actor Oscar in Michael's hand, Naomi in her gold dress and strappy heels, both of them looking like they'd just left somewhere that cost a hundred grand to enter — and the three people working the late shift had looked up and there had been a moment of pure, gorgeous confusion before recognition hit all three of them simultaneously.

"Oh my GOD—"

"YO—"

"BRO THAT IS REAL—"

"Is that an Oscar?"

Michael had laughed — full, real, head back. "Yeah," he said. "Can I get a Double-Double?"

What followed was twenty minutes that the internet would debate the merits of for the next forty-eight hours: Michael at the counter signing the back of somebody's work shirt, Naomi at a small table with the Oscar sitting in front of her like a centerpiece while they both ate with the particular urgency of people who'd been too nervous to eat much all day. She had a cheeseburger and fries. He had two of everything. The workers kept rotating past their table like they were trying to confirm with their eyes what they already knew.

"You're going to get me in this gold dress in an In-N-Out at one in the morning all over the internet," she said.

"You look incredible."

"That's not the point, Michael."

"I think that is the point." He stole one of her fries with complete calm. "You been on your feet in heels since five o'clock. You needed to eat something real. And I needed—" he gestured at the Double-Double— "this."

She watched him take a bite.

"You're thirty-nine years old and you just won the Oscar," she said. "This is where you wanted to be?"

He looked at her across the small table, the Oscar between them, the fluorescent lights making everything honest. "Right here. Yeah." He wasn't being ironic. "I've been in every fancy room in Hollywood tonight. This is the part of the night where I get to just—" he exhaled. "Be me. With you. Eating a burger."

She understood that in a way she hadn't expected to need to explain to herself. She understood the value of the small true thing. The meal that fed you for real. The room where nobody was watching.

She picked up her cheeseburger.

"For the record," she said, "I want you to know I'm going to tell our kids their father took me to In-N-Out after his Oscar win."

He grinned, wide and delighted. The dimples doing every bit of their damage. "They're gonna think I'm the coolest man alive."

"Or they're gonna think you're ridiculous."

"Same thing."

She took a bite and did not argue.

One of the workers — a young girl, couldn't have been more than nineteen, who'd been watching them with barely-concealed awe since they walked in — drifted over on the pretense of wiping down the table next to theirs.

"Can I just say," she started, and then seemed to lose her nerve.

Michael turned to her. Full attention. "Yeah, what's up."

"I watched Sinners four times." She said it like a confession. "I don't normally do that. But I just — both of them, Smoke and Stack, I couldn't stop thinking about it after. The way you—" she shook her head. "Sorry, I'm being weird."

"Nah," Michael said. Serious, genuine. "That means everything to me. For real. Thank you for going back."

She beamed, backed away. Three feet later she pulled out her phone and Naomi watched her whole body communicate oh my god oh my god oh my god.

Naomi looked at Michael.

"This is your life," she said.

"Our life," he said.

She felt that settle somewhere permanent.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay."

They came through the door kissing.

Not sweetly. Not gently. The particular kind of kissing that happened when two people had been doing the slow burn of adjacency all night — hands and whispers and that low warm look across a room full of the most famous people in Hollywood, maintaining the composed public version of themselves while the private version was doing something else entirely underneath — and finally had four walls around them and permission. He had the door barely closed behind them and his hands in her curls before she could get her heels off, which she didn't bother with immediately, and she had the front of his jacket in both fists with the specific intention of someone who'd been patient approximately long enough.

She'd been patient for twenty years if you wanted to be technical about it. Parts of it, anyway.

"Hey—" she started.

"I got you," he said. Not dismissive. Not rushing past her. Just — certain. The particular certainty of a man who had figured out what it meant to show up for someone and had stopped second-guessing it.

And he did have her. He always had.

The Oscar ended up on the console table near the entrance.

She'd think about that later — the domestic poetry of it. The statuette that represented every early morning and late night and year of craft and risk and Ryan Coogler's vision and Michael's willingness to be broken open on screen, sitting on the console table beside her grandmother's earrings that she'd taken out in the car and set on the first surface she found. Their things. Together. No ceremony required.

His jacket went next. She helped him out of it and dropped it over the arm of the nearest chair, and he did the same for her — found her shoulders and slid his hands down her arms slowly, warming what the March air outside had briefly cooled, before his hands moved to her waist and stayed there.

"You know," he started.

"Mm."

"I've been trying to be patient all night."

She raised her eyes to his. "That's a lie. You couldn't even wait till we were inside to announce the engagement."

He had the dignity to look mildly caught. "That was—"

"You couldn't wait."

"—a moment."

"Michael."

"It was a whole moment, Naomi. The man asked and the answer came out before I thought about it." He was smiling, not quite apologetic. "You can't say that's not romantic."

"I can and will say it was chaotic."

"Same thing with me sometimes." He tucked a curl back from her face. The gesture he'd done a thousand times — the specific reaching-to-fix-a-curl that had started as casual and become a habit and was now something so deeply theirs she'd feel it as an absence if it stopped. "You loved it."

She had, in fact, loved it. The sound of fiancée on that red carpet in his voice, easy and assured, like it was already the most natural word in the world. Like he'd been saying it for years.

"I'm not telling you that," she said.

"You don't have to." He pulled her closer. "I felt it."

The dress was a whole conversation.

He turned her around, found the zipper. She heard him exhale once — appreciation, attention — and then his hands were deliberate, patient, coming down slowly.

"You wore this on purpose," he said.

"What does that mean."

"The back." His hands. Following the line of it. "You wore this knowing exactly what it was doing."

"I wore this because it cost four thousand dollars and I look incredible in it."

"Both can be true." His mouth, at her shoulder blade. Light. A statement of intent more than a destination. "Both are very much true."

She turned back around before she lost the thread of herself entirely. Looked at him in the low light of the hallway — his dress shirt half-untucked, that quiet intensity of him fully present, the Oscar twenty feet away on the console table next to her grandmother's earrings.

He looked at her the way he'd looked at her on that red carpet. The way he'd looked at her in the audience when Adrien Brody called his name and the first thing he'd done was find her face. The way he looked at her that had nothing to do with cameras or performance or the version of himself the world saw. Just Michael. The eighteen-year-old boy from Newark who'd matched the boutonnière, grown into a thirty-nine-year-old man who'd won an Oscar and carried it to an In-N-Out at one in the morning because he wanted a burger with his girl.

This was the thing that none of the profiles fully captured. Not the magazine covers, not the GQ spread, not the Sinners press run. The thing that Naomi knew that the world didn't was the specific quality of Michael B. Jordan's attention when it was entirely yours — the stillness of him that could shift, that could open into something that was neither Stack's hunger nor Smoke's grief but the man underneath both, focused and warm and present, and when he decided to be, something that operated on its own frequency entirely.

He didn't rush anything.

That had been true at eighteen in a hotel room in Newark when she'd needed him not to rush. It was true now in a way that was different in every surface detail and identical in the thing underneath it.

"Come here," he said, quiet. Not demanding, not asking. Just an invitation he was certain she'd accept.

She stepped into him, her body aligning with his in the dim hallway light, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the champagne still lingering on her breath. Michael's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and their lips met in a kiss that started soft, exploratory, but deepened quickly. His tongue slipped past her lips, tasting her, drawing out a soft sigh from her as she responded, her own tongue tangling with his in a slow, wet dance. Saliva mingled between them, the kiss growing messier, more urgent, as his hands roamed up her back, fingers tracing the exposed skin where the dress had dipped low.

Naomi's hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the crisp shirt, and she kissed him back harder this time, her tongue pushing deeper, saliva trailing slightly when they parted for air.

Michael's fingers found the hem of her dress, inching it up her thighs with deliberate slowness, savoring the feel of her skin. He tugged it higher, over her hips, revealing the lace of her panties, and she lifted her arms to help him pull it off entirely. The fabric whispered to the floor, leaving her in just her underwear and heels. His eyes darkened as he took her in, his hands immediately returning to her body, sliding up to cup her breasts through the thin bra.

"You are incredible," he whispered, unhooking the bra with a practiced flick, letting it fall away. Naomi's nipples hardened in the cool air, and Michael leaned down, his mouth capturing one peak. His tongue flicked out, circling the sensitive bud before he licked it fully, flat and wet, drawing a gasp from her. He sucked gently, then harder, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through her. She arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, moaning softly as he switched to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention—licking, sucking, his saliva glistening on her skin.

The foreplay built like a slow-burning fire, his mouth trailing kisses down her sternum while his hands worked at his own shirt, buttons popping open one by one until he shrugged it off. Naomi's fingers fumbled with his belt, unbuckling it, then unzipping his pants. She pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his dick, already hard and thick, standing at attention. It throbbed in her hand as she wrapped her fingers around it, stroking slowly, feeling the heat and the vein pulsing under her palm.

Michael groaned low in his throat, his head tipping back for a moment before he kissed her again, tongues sliding messily, saliva slick between their lips.

"Naomi," he breathed, the sound of her name like a plea.

She sank to her knees then, the rug soft under her, and took him into her mouth. Her lips parted around the head, tongue swirling over the tip, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. She sucked him in deeper, hollowing her cheeks, her hand working the base in rhythm. Michael's hand rested on her head, not pushing, just guiding, his groans filling the hallway—deep, guttural sounds that made her core ache.

He let her work him like that for minutes, his hips rocking slightly, but before he could lose control, he pulled her up, his dick slick and shining from her mouth.

"Not yet," he said, voice husky. With a sudden surge of strength, he scooped her into his arms and went upstairs to toss her onto the bed in their bedroom, the mattress dipping under her weight. She bounced once, laughing breathlessly, but the sound turned to a moan as he followed, crawling over her, kissing her deeply, tongues thrusting in a mimicry of what was to come.

Michael kissed his way down her body, hooking his fingers into her panties and sliding them off, exposing her pussy, already wet and swollen. He settled between her legs, his breath hot against her folds before his tongue delved in. He licked her slowly at first, from entrance to clit, savoring her taste, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her open. Naomi's back arched, a long moan escaping her as he focused on her clit, sucking it between his lips, flicking with his tongue. He groaned against her, the vibration sending shivers through her, his mouth working her relentlessly until she was writhing, her hands fisting the sheets.

"Michael... please," she gasped, her body trembling on the edge. He didn't stop until she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her with a cry, her pussy clenching around nothing as waves of pleasure pulsed through her.

He rose then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locked on hers—intense, loving, the emotional tether between them pulling taut.

"I need you," he said simply, and she nodded, pulling him down. They shifted together onto their sides, facing each other, his body against hers in a way that let him slide into her easily. His dick pressed against her entrance, and he thrust in slowly, inch by inch, filling her completely. Naomi moaned, the stretch exquisite, her walls gripping him tight.

They moved like that, side by side, his arm wrapped around her, hand cupping her breast as he kissed her neck, her shoulder. His hips rocked steadily, deep and unhurried, each thrust drawing groans from him and moans from her.

"You feel so good," he murmured into her skin, his free hand sliding down to lift her leg, hooking it over his arm to angle deeper. The position opened her up, letting him hit that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She reached back, fingers digging into his thigh, urging him on as their bodies slapped together softly, the room filled with their shared sounds—her breathy moans, his low groans of pleasure.

The emotional weight of it all amplified every sensation: the way he held her like she was precious, the trust built over years, the triumph of the night making this intimacy feel even more profound. Sweat slicked their skin, his kisses peppering her jaw, her lips finding his in messy, saliva-slicked presses, tongues lazy now but no less passionate.

As the pace quickened, Michael shifted them again, rolling her onto her back without pulling out, settling into missionary. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, thrusting deeper, harder, his dick plunging into her with a rhythm that had her nails raking down his back.

"Naomi... fuck," he groaned, his face buried in her neck, breath ragged. She met every thrust, her hips bucking up, moaning his name as the tension coiled tight in her belly.

He came first, his body tensing, a deep groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and ejaculated inside her, hot spurts filling her pussy, pulsing with each wave. The sensation pushed her over again, her walls milking him as she cried out, clinging to him through the aftershocks.

They stayed like that, connected, breaths mingling, his weight a comforting blanket as the world outside faded away. 

****************************************************************

She surfaced slowly. The room pale with early light.

He was asleep beside her — actually asleep this time, not the wide-awake-holding-the-room of their teenage hotel room, just deeply out, his breathing even and slow, his arm heavy around her in the way of someone who'd gone under quickly and thoroughly. She looked at him for a moment. The light from the windows was that specific gray-gold of Los Angeles in the very early morning, before the sun made its full argument.

She thought about what Donna had said. He's been in love with you since he was seventeen years old. The rest of us have just been patient.

She thought about a Newark gym. A disco ball. A boy who'd asked her to dance and held her the right distance — not too far, not too close — and who had then spent twenty years becoming someone she loved more specifically and completely than she'd known was possible.

She'd built Soulrise in the years before this. She'd hosted retreats on four continents. She was her own person, her own architecture, her own proof that she hadn't needed anyone to make her whole.

And she still got to have this.

Both things true at once.

She turned her face into his shoulder. Felt him stir slightly.

"Hey," he said. Gravel-voiced, half-asleep.

"Hey."

A beat. The light shifting.

"You good?"

The same question. Since prom. Since always. Across twenty years and every version of themselves they'd been in between.

She felt something full and specific and completely unhurried settle over her.

"Yeah," she said.

His arm tightened slightly around her.

She was always good when he was holding the room.

The Internet, March 16, 2026

tmz: Michael B. Jordan CONFIRMS engagement on the Oscars red carpet — and she was by his side all night 👀🔥

bossip: WAIT. Who is Naomi Calloway and why have we never heard of her?? 👏

soulriseretreats (official IG, 3:17 AM): ✨ he said soon to be Jordan on national television so I guess the secret's out 💍

[847,293 likes. 42,000 comments. Comment section: fully unhinged, entirely celebratory.]

user: the ring was ON HER FINGER THE WHOLE CARPET. the whole time!! we weren't paying attention!!

user: the In-N-Out photos are sending me. oscar in hand. gold dress. double double. THIS WOMAN.

user: soulrise retreats has been fully booked since 2 AM. their website crashed. she's THAT girl.

user: michael b jordan went to prom with her in newark in 2004, they broke up, stayed friends for twenty years, and then got engaged. that's not a story that's a NOVEL.

user: soon to be jordan. on the oscar stage. i'm not okay.

user: he matched the boutonnière to her dress at prom. he MATCHED it. i looked it up. her prom photos have been unearthed and HE MATCHED IT.